


Ma Bête Noire

by Kitsune_Heart



Series: The Living Universe [7]
Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Age Difference, Blanket Permission, F/M, Growing Up, Literature, Loss, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsune_Heart/pseuds/Kitsune_Heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My Black Beast." The thing which you hate the most. For Butler, a weakness: something a bodyguard should not have. For Minerva, a mistake: something geniuses do not make. Of course, every rule has its exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blame

It is terrifyingly easy to bring a minor across borders without parental approval. Billy Kong had done so with a few handshakes concealing tightly rolled bills and a wink here and there. As far as his benefactors knew, this young girl would never be seen again, except perhaps on the news that night, or on the back of a milk carton. She would be one of the many gone missing every year, stolen by their own parents or strangers, either put away where no one could see them and take them back, or put on display for every interested party with a few extra coins to "take" in whatever way they could think up.

This is what it took for Butler to get Minerva back into her home country: the quick flash of a blue diamond tattoo on his shoulder to a barman, the calling in of one of his innumerable favors, and NT$30,000. Of course, if he had not been one of Madame Ko's students, the cost could have easily been five times that, but the bodyguard's school had more connections than a kudzu plant, and he soon walked out of the tavern with Minerva close on his heels, giving the girl's new passport a quick inspection. It was a remarkable forgery. Only the most diligent of customs agents would detect the slightly off sheen to the stamps. Even if Minerva had not been a genius or had a photographic memory, she would have had no trouble confirming the information on the document. After all, it was completely correct: her home address, age, date of birth. Only one thing was slightly different: the name.

"Minerva...Lee?" She finally said when they had walked a quarter-mile from their contact.

"My passport is for a General Xavier Lee. If our last names were different, questions could be asked." As Butler walked, he lightly bent the passport, back and forth, over and over. Occasionally, he would inspect the once-pristine document, adding a small tear or more defined crease to a page's corner. "Remember your cover, Minerva: you are my daughter, and we are coming back from a trip to attend my grandmother's funeral."

She analyzed his face. "Butler, we look nothing alike."

Butler shrugged, almost completely tearing out one page from the passport's innermost leaf. "If anyone questions it, I'll imply that your mother had an affair and you are illegitimate"

The girl gave a quick, soft curse in French, and glared at him with such ferocity that Butler took a single step away from her side. He looked at her with something like shock, though he was not completely discomposed. Artemis cursed so rarely that he had almost forgotten that gaining a filthy vocabulary was part of any normal child's rite of passage into adulthood. Of course, this girl wasn't what one would consider "normal," being far too much like Artemis, but Butler suspected she had enjoyed at least a bit more social interaction with her peers than the missing Irish boy.

Butler felt his heart pull again, the ache almost forgotten while he planned their escape from Taiwan. Artemis...gone...no, missing. He had to keep telling himself that. He'd get home and contact the People and see what they thought. Then he would find out when he could expect Artemis back. It was just a matter of waiting. Surely.

Eventually, Minerva managed to switch back into English, her face red from both a lack of air—which made her words somewhat divided, as she tried to regain her breath—and her quite apparent rage. "You will say no such thing! That is...will you stop doing that! You'll ruin it!"

"Hmmm?" Butler looked away from the ancient cinder-block wall they were passing, along which he had dragged each edge of the passport, leaving an almost invisible line as the border was worn away. He pressed harder when he came to the bottom spine corner, sanding away an eighth-inch wedge before complying with the girl's order. "Stop yelling, Minerva. A lot of the people here have studied English, and I'd rather we kept a low profile until we're back on the jet."

"What. Are you. _Doing?_ " Minerva insisted, reaching up to snatch the passport away.

Butler allowed it, his work done. As the girl inspected the damage, he stepped from the sidewalk and into the gutter, barely avoiding a dam of trash that held back a murky brown lake. He raised a hand in the air, waving vigorously whenever he spotted a taxi. "Weathering your passport," he finally said. "It's four years old, by the issue date, and there's plenty of stamps inside, since the General is known to travel regularly. My passport is a bit worn, but you're a teenager. Or almost one. Yours should be abused."

"If you're my _father_ ," Minerva scowled at the switched paternity, "shouldn't you keep my passport, so it won't get like this?"

Butler narrowed his eyes at a cabbie, who met his gaze and nodded. "You are a stubborn child who thinks she is more mature than she actually is, and who won't give me a moments peace unless she has her way. That is why you carry your passport, and because you are completely immature, like all children who think they should be considered adults, you've ruined it."

The cabbie veered across three lanes of traffic, nearly taking off the side mirror of a minuscule hybrid before it braked far too late, the vehicle's innards emitting a dangerous metal-on-metal shriek that would have made Butler wince, but for his stoic training. The car demolished the trash dam before finally stopping, the driver thrown forward in his seat and thumping against his belt, then crashing back. He immediately thrust a finger at the rear passenger door, in case his customers did not know how to enter a simple taxi.

Butler took one large stride and grabbed the door handle, pulling it opening, and waited.

After a few moments of inaction, he sighed and looked behind him, admonishing the girl. "Minerva, please, we have to...oh."

The water had missed him, but the girl's soft white stockings were now nearly covered in brown, which spread quickly, her legs splotched where the long socks had not covered her. Her shoes were completely sodden, and one was covered in a very clingy candy bar wrapper of indeterminate age. She looked up at him, eyes unflinching, though her body shook. No tears had yet fallen, but there was a definite sheen at the bottom lids, and her voice was small as she spoke, half of the words almost lost to the busy street. "Do we? Do we, Butler? Do children..."

He felt his anger leave in one short exhale, and he did his best to smile. It was weak, and he knew she would not be convinced. "Yes, Minerva. Children make _mistakes._ "

"T-then what about Artemis? What if he never comes back?"

"He will," Butler said firmly, repeating it in his head. _He will come back. He will come back. He will come back._ It was to become his mantra for the next three years.

"It's all my fault!" Minerva sobbed. She looked down, refusing to let him see her eyes as she lost control over her expression.

Butler didn't answer at first. He wanted to reach out to this child—an actual _child_ , despite her genius, and so unlike Artemis in that she retained that essential innocence the Irish boy had lost while growing up in a family of criminals—but he held back. He did not know if she would accept his comfort. So, instead, he said, "It is Kong's fault."

"I had Papa _hire_ Kong," she reasoned. "If it wasn't for me and...oh, _merde_ , what if he doesn't come back?"

"He _will_ ," Butler repeated, almost angry. He did not need this girl to question what he knew—desperately needed to _believe_ —was true.

She shook her head, ringlets whipping her face, hands in tight fists before her chest as she finally looked at him again, screaming, "But you will hate me if he doesn't!"

The driver gave them both a sour look, and, even though his fare was not yet in the car, he started the meter, tapping it sharply when the Europeans did not react. Did they not have the English adage about time equaling money? He did not have the patience to sit around for them to finish a family drama!

It took the first tear falling down Minerva's cheek to make Butler respond. He nodded. "I might have...but he _will_ come back."

She stared at him, mouth open and eyes wide, until the driver honked, the proximity to the horn making her scream and jump.

Butler trained his eyes on the cabbie and thought happy thoughts. Happy...for a Butler.

The Taiwanese man paled and snapped his head forward, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Galvanized by the honk, Minerva made for the door, her feet squishing with each step. Already on the brink for the past few days of terror, this minor inconvenience overburdened her, and she sobbed once more before sliding into the back seat, biting her lower lip to regain some composure.

Butler followed, slamming the door and turning to the driver. He continued to speak in English, though—like most English speakers in a foreign country—he spoke a lot slower and louder, as if that was the key to overcoming the language barrier. "Air... _port_."

The cabbie nodded and, certain that his fare would not understand—probably one of those ignorant pig Americans—he said very unkind things about Butler as they drove off, all in a very cheerful voice, as if discussing the weather.

Butler had to pause at some of them. The cabbie was creative, he'd give the man that.

Minerva said nothing as they fought their way through traffic. She looked down at her filth-covered legs, breathing steadily to keep from completely bursting into tears. She wasn't normally like this. A weak, tearful girl. It was all just too much.

After a long while, Butler pulled aside one of his suit lapels, reaching into a pocket to bring out a handkerchief, handing it over without a word.

It took several seconds for the French girl to accept it, and then she spent some time looking at the embroidered crest. It depicted a golden phoenix with wings unfurled, a blue over its chest, its talons digging into the throat of a writhing black cat. She imprinted it in her memory for future research, certain this was no name-brand image. Then, folding the handkerchief into a smaller square, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes, then under her nose as she took a deep and somewhat bubbling breath. She examined her darkened legs and barely turned her head to watch Butler's face.

He twitched his fingers at her, brushing off her concerns about his linens.

Just as she was about to wipe herself clean, the girl hesitated. She looked at the handkerchief in one hand, and then the passport on her lap. Almost reluctantly, she opened the document to the middle sheet and pressed it to one of the thicker stains on her stockings, then dragged it up her leg, the dirty water soaking into the paper. She did this several times, going to different pages, until just as much dirt was on her skin as on her passport.

Butler watched her, an eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

Feeling his gaze, Minerva looked at her work and nodded. "Children...do make such a mess of things, don't they?"

After a long wait, Butler shrugged. "Everyone does."

Laughing in a cracked manner, Minerva nodded again. Then, putting the document aside, she moistened the handkerchief in her mouth and began to scrub at the worst of the dirt. She would need to see if they could purchase a few items at the airports stores, though she rather suspected Butler would usher her onto the jet and home as quickly as possible. At least on the jet she could wash her stockings and shoes off.

She offered the handkerchief back to Butler, hoping he would leave it to her, allowing her some more concrete materials for research, but the man took it back without comment, stuffing it into his pocket. He sniffed once at the smell that rose to him from the fine cotton and made a mental note to have both jacket and handkerchief thoroughly laundered.

She waited until they pulled up to the airport and the driver began to snap demands for money to say what was needed. Her three words were obviously never meant to be heard, masked as they were by the loud Mandarin, and Butler allowed them to go without response. Inwardly, though, he found himself losing just a bit of his tension.

"Thank you, Butler."

Well...at least she was polite.

* * *

The weathering of the passport was masterfully done, and the addition of mud a stroke of genius, as it turned out. Butler watched the inspection lines carefully before choosing one in particular, where the worker wore gloves and a face mask. When they presented their documents, the agent looked at Butler's with no reaction, but practically screeched at Minerva's. She wasn't even sure he'd read the information on it before handing the filthy item back.

Minerva fell asleep mid-takeoff, and was out for six hours. When she finished a hastily prepared sandwich and over-brewed cup of tea, Butler gave her a five-minute overview of how to fly, then left for the foldout beds at the back of the jet without even asking if she understood. Artemis had always hated being asked if he understood.

Twenty minutes from France, he rose and took the helm again, going through the necessary calls to get a spot on the landing strip.

"I called my father," Minerva said, as if confessing, waving a hand towards the on-board phone.

"Oh?"

"He's in Toulouse. At a hospital. He thinks Kong gave him a concussion." She paused, then hung her head. "He cried when he realized it was me," she whispered.

"He's lucky a bump on the head and you missing for a few days is all that went wrong. He doesn't even realize how lucky."

" _Oui_. I...did not anticipate him having such a reaction. He has a car waiting on the tarmac. My family's old driver, very trustworthy. You need only be on the ground a few minutes."

"I'll go with you to the hospital," Butler said, but he said it weakly.

" _Non_ ," she insisted, curls bouncing as she shook her head. "You have done enough. I will be safe."

He considered protesting, but only for a moment. He was so tired...he just wanted to get back to the Manor and let his old bones have a break. Put aside his duty for just a few more hours. And...maybe, by the time he had the strength to go on without Artemis, the People would call and say he was already back. Perhaps the passage of the moon over Hybras's old dock—hadn't someone said it was off the Irish coast?—would let something align, sending his charge back to his side? Back to where he could be watched and protected, and where Butler could do so without failing him, this time?

When the violent rumbles of the engine ceased, Minerva undid her seat belt, jumping to her feet far earlier than any commercial airliner would have allowed. She seemed to hesitate at Butler's side, a hand clenched to her heart, pink tinging her cheeks. Then she gathered her courage and—in the French style—pressed her cheek to Butler's coming away with a soft "mwah" sound to simulate an actual kiss. Then she was dashing from the cockpit, opening the cabin door on her own. She careened down the stairs that had just been wheeled to the jet, still-soggy (though rinsed) shoes barely touching the ground before she dove into the open door of the town car that awaited her. No sooner had the door closed than it drifted off, it's speed kept low, no doubt despite Minerva's requests to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. Butler applauded the driver's professionalism

Butler only had to idle a few minutes (thanks to a good friend in the control tower, as Butler had good friends everywhere) before he was cleared for takeoff. The flight to Dublin was a mere hop, and the drive to the Manor only took another hour, even in traffic. However, spending that time allowed Butler to think. His job involved a lot more of this than one might assume, and the bodyguard was by no means a dullard. In comparison to his employer, he was a spark against an inferno, but, removed from his service to the Fowl family, he probably could have made a respectable living as a teacher, perhaps even a little-known college professor. Yet, despite the time he had and the calm procession of his thoughts (for Butler had been conditioned to think logically, even in the greatest of crises), he had no idea what to say when he parked the Bentley in front of Fowl Manor and stepped out...alone.

The front door seemed heavier than he remembered. Perhaps it had gone off-balance. He would need to look into that. The entire frame hadn't been the same sine the troll rampage.

Inside, he could feel that comforting sense of the house being occupied. There would be no more waiting. No resting before this final duty. Whatever he said, he said it now.

Butler found Angeline and Artemis Sr. in one of the living rooms. It was the smallest and least expensive, but only "cheap" in comparison with the antique-filled monoliths to the fowl Empire to which business partners were exposed. This was the space the family had staked out for itself and, in the past year, following Mr. Fowl's transformation and his son's slow thawing, they had actually begun to spend evenings after dinner together, talking and laughing (though the second was more an activity enjoyed by the parents, and not their son).

Angeline and Timmy sat together on a cream-and-silver couch, whispering. As Butler walked in, but before he was noticed, Mr. Fowl poked his wife's stomach, making her giggle and lean back against his chest. "Stop," she pouted, turning her head from him, though she still smiled. "You knave."

"Knave am I? Haven't I reformed?" Timmy beseeched as he wrapped his arms about the Manor lady's waist, drawing her tighter against his body, resting his chin on her shoulder. They both gave out little sighs, spending that moment trying to match the cadence of their breaths.

Butler watched them, and felt as the new, sharp ache in his gut was joined by a softer, yet far older one in his chest. It was something he had not felt in years, buried long ago when the old, indisputable Luther Fowl had entered Butler's hospital recovery room and ordered him to finish treatment in time for his grandson's birth. Against the doctor's orders, Butler had stood guard, though his splinted leg had screamed with pain the entire long labor.

Butler forced the memories down and made himself take one stealth-free step into the living room.

Alerted, Artemis Sr. looked up from the private embrace. On recognizing the intruder, he smiled. It was not the polite greeting given to a servant, as he may have once deigned to bestow upon the bodyguard, but instead a far more unveiled grin, as one would share with a cousin or uncle. "Butler," he cheered, bringing his wife's equally joyous attention to the man. "How was the opera? Did Arty over-analyze the performance, of did he actually enjoy himself?"

Butler had no idea what Mr. Fowl was talking about. Kidnappings, guns, demons, Artemis disappearing as he fell to the streets of Taiwan...

"The...opera," he said vaguely.

Angeline failed to catch the man's distraction, though her husband's fading grin showed that he had. She leaned forward, practically bursting with ill-contained emotion. "Where's Arty? Don't tell me he's gone off to bed; we _have_ to see him and tell him the news, _right now!_ "

"Angeline," Mr. Fowl said, taking one arm from about his wife's waist so he could attempt to halt her words with a steady hand on her shoulder. "Wait—"

"Oh, but Timmy, I just _can't_ wait," she babbled, glowing. "Butler, go get Arty! Call up your sister, too! She'll be wild!" The delay for summoning was too much for the woman, and she could not hold her news in for any longer, shrieking it out: "I'm _pregnant!_ "

Butler was silent, even as, several seconds later, he managed to unfreeze and walk to a chair, sitting down slowly, like the aged man he truly was.

Hunched over, hands cradling his head, Butler began to weep.


	2. Strength

It had to be the least-technological any hospital bedside got. Gaspard wasn't connected to any IVs, and there wasn't even a heart monitor visible in the room, though a few round stickers had been applied to his chest. These were mostly hidden by his standard patient's gown (Which, as Beau had pointed out, "Let's Papa moon everyone!" A skill he greatly envied.), and transmitted his vitals wirelessly to the nurse's station and the smart phones carried by each doctor for monitoring and notes. Very efficient. Very modern. Very expensive.

Minerva had managed to pull up patent information on the few small pieces of equipment she could find in the room, and the documents made a prickle start in the corner of her eyes. "Dr. S. Cal Pull." Her father was in good hands. Or at least in good circuits.

"Papa," Beau whined, wiping an impressive line of snot—the last remnants of his cold—with his sleeve. "I'm boooooored. Can we go home, now?"

Minerva tutted at her little brother, fetching a tissue from the bedside table to wipe away the line of goop that tinged the boy's black hoodie sweater. She took a second and held it to his nose, ordering him to blow as her father answered. Beau complied so strenuously that his face turned a red and one could almost imagine his head popping right off. The effort did little to clear his sinuses, Minerva noted with dismay.

"The doctors will come in at any moment, Beau my boy, and then we can look at some pictures of my brain and be on our way."

Minerva felt her heart flop dangerously at this. It had been three days since her father barely escaped having a dagger embedded in the weak line where the bones of his forehead fused. He had, instead, only taken a violent rap to the head, resulting in headaches which warranted his admittance to the hospital. Now they waited for doctors. And patients never waited so long for doctors unless something was truly wrong.

She suspected a small lesion. A bruise to the brain. She feared a burst vessel had turned into a clot; one that could burst with little to no provocation, cutting him down in a few short minutes.

Beau, at three years old and lacking the same education as his sister, became very excited at the idea of these pictures. He shook his head to get his nose free from his sister's grip, going to his father's bedside. "Up," he commanded, like the little emperor he had been raised to be, arms outstretched to his father. Beau's feet kicked wildly as Gaspard complied with a theatrical strain and grunt. Once up, Beau began to search about for the little controller that rearranged the bed, ready for some button-mashing. (Minerva had, luckily, hidden this under her father's pillow an hour ago, when Beau was checking out the miniscule hospital bathroom, thus saving Mr. Paradizo from body origami.)

"How'd they take pictures of your brain, Papa?"

Gaspard leaned over and began to whisper to his son, as if divulging a great secret. "They made me lay down on this bed, without even a pillow to cradle my head. And then the bed was slid into a tube with these _really_ bright lights. They turned it on and it thumped and thumped and thumped, and I wasn't allowed to move for half an _hour!_ "

" _What_?" Beau groaned, eyes soft with pity. The idea of staying still for thirty minutes was impossible for him to fathom. Even on his worst behavior, his time-outs rarely lasted longer than five minutes, simply because that was sufficient for a true punishment against the hyperactive tot. "Were you scared?"

"Not a bit!" Gaspard rumbled, accepting a tissue from Minerva and wiping a new dribble of snot away from his son's upper lip. "I just let the doctors do their job, and then came back here, and the cute Korean nurse was so impressed with my bravery that she gave me _two_ servings of chocolate pudding with lunch!"

Beau's eyes went wide. "Two?" he breathed reverently. "Wooooooooow."

"I know!"

Minerva squeezed her eyes shut at the interchange. What came next was inevitable. As regular as the tides, as unstoppable as a tsunami. She started counting down with her fingers 5...4...3...2...1.

"Can I have a chocolate pudding!" Beau yipped, casting his eyes about in search of plastic desert cups of glory. "Please, Papa? _Pleeeeeeease?_ "

"I can't get out of bed," Gaspard groused. "But...if you ask your sister _very_ nicely..."

Minerva tried to throw up a mental suit of armor before her brother appealed to her, but it was no use. No material made by man or fairy could withstand those huge eyes and quivering lower lip.

"Please?" Beau squeaked in that quiet, pitiful way that he had spent the three years of his life perfecting.

She melted instantly, and was completely ashamed at herself for doing so. " _Oui. Oui, petit diable._ Let us go to the canteen."

Cheering, Beau slid off the bed, putting his hand into his sister's, expecting and right in his belief that she would take hold without further prompting, despite the thin coat of sticky sugar and crusted snot. Her only reaction to the unclean touch was to make a mental note to get some wet wipes before handing over the goods. Then she allowed herself to be pulled from the hospital room and down the halls.

She let Beau lead her until he took a good dozen turns (one a set of four rights that sent them back down the exact same hall they had just left) and finally stopped. After spinning around to look down each hallway, he looked up at Minerva and, with a huff that conveyed his supreme indignation, stated, "They moved it."

"Terrible," she opined, moving them to the nearby elevator and punching for a car. They waited a minute before being allowed to descend to the ground floor, coming out directly in front of the canteen.

Beau uttered his fierce war-cry: "Chocolate!" Springing forward, he made for his treat.

Minerva increased the strength of her grip, making the boy spin about like a ballerina dancer. Kneeling, she wrapped an arm around his waist, lifting him with a very un-ladylike grunt. "Come on, you tyrant," she ordered, using her hips for support. It would be a few more years before her body gained the full womanly curves that would allow her to easily cradle the child, and she strained under his weight. "Oof! Beau, you need to limit your sweets! You are growing too heavy for me!"

Beau decided to gain selective deafness, as they had just made it to the front of the short line, and he could now address the cashier. "Two chocolate puddings," he proclaimed, holding up three fingers.

The worker began to tally the order, but paused as Minerva yelped, " _Non!_ Just one, Beau."

The boy pouted. "But Papa had two..." He sniffled, the effect somewhat marred by the thick snot being sucked back up his nose.

"Papa is in the hospital," Minerva reminded.

"But...I'm in the hospital, too," Beau reasoned, hands held up in a shrug, unsure why this woman did not follow his obvious logic.

She could feel it. The tension in his body that said a tantrum was on the way. Something had to be done, quickly, or the next three hours would be utter hell. "The next time you come here because you are _sick_ , you can have two cups. Okay?" She prayed his next visit would be many years hence; she pitied the nurse that tried to marshal the boy into eating properly. There would be blood.

Someone up above liked Minerva that day, because Beau considered her words and, with a sigh that turned his body into a dead weight, nearly making her drop him, he agreed. Then, slyly said, "One for me, one for you?"

She laughed at this. Clever boy. "No," she said, holding up a single finger to the cashier, who complied, "I am not hungry."

Beau seemed stunned that chocolate could be used to appease hunger. Chocolate wasn't supposed to do that! Chocolate existed for chocolate's sake!

The transaction was completed and Minerva gave Beau the spoon to hold, keeping the pudding (plus several wet wipes) with promises to hand it over once they were back with Papa. He would have undoubtedly opened it on the way and wind up coating her dress with the preservative-laden dessert. Her brother was at least patient enough for this, and sang a little song about bunnies that pooed out cocoa pellets as they went. Minerva vaguely wondered if that was where he thought chocolate came from. It made sense, when one considered Easter and chocolate-egg laying male rabbits.

Then she entered the recovery ward and saw her father's room and the doctors inside. And the laptop screen they had brought in. And the slowly morphing images, with bright red circles drawn around a large white section amidst the gray mass of the brain.

She stopped walking.

Her father, who had been nodding silently, jaw firm as the doctor's talked, seemed to feel her gaze. He looked towards the window and at his daughter and son, spine going straighter when Minerva locked gazes with him. Slowly, he shook his head, and then jerked it towards the waiting room.

After a pause, Minerva nodded back, turning from the private suite and going into the waiting area. Beau had not seen their father's look, and did not question the change of plans. He was too busy being instantly transfixed by a robot cartoon on the television. He allowed himself to be set down, legs kicking with the anticipation. Minerva managed to clean his hands while he yelled for Something-Tron to beat up the BlahBlah-zord. Then the pudding was opened and his focus was set entirely on eating.

Minerva sat next to him, eyes closed, swallowing rapidly to keep down her bile. Unlike Artemis Fowl II, she did not particularly excel in medicine, being more inclined to math than biology. She was smarter than any of her private-school professors, certainly, but these doctors knew more than she, for now. However, it was simple fact that no doctor brought in highlighted brain scans when all was well, and she had the structures of a normal brain memorized. She couldn't make a pinpoint diagnosis, but the general idea was obvious. And...and... _cher Dieu_ , she couldn't take this...

She smelled something.

With a startled jolt away from the unanticipated and very close scent, Minerva opened her eyes.

Beau was leaning on the arm rest separating them, propping himself up on one hand, using the other to extend a wobbly spoonful of pudding to just under her nose. "Here," he said. "Eat it," he commanded.

Her stomach roiled and she was about to push the spoon away when it was thrust even further into her face, smearing her upper lip. Obediently, she opened her mouth and allowed Beau to slide the pudding inside, smiling at him as best she could when he took the utensil away clean.

He went back to his cartoon, good deed for the day done. It had been a supreme sacrifice.

She still felt like throwing up, and couldn't even swallow this quarter-mouthful properly. Minerva let her saliva dilute the chocolate, which seeped down her throat until all that was left was the bitter aftertaste of highly processed cocoa and artificial sweeteners. She almost groaned when she recalled that Beau was still sick. Just what she needed. Cold viruses.

* * *

A week after the loss of Artemis, Butler got the call.

He was sitting in his bedroom at Fowl Manor, the lights off, the bed un-slept-in for the entire time he'd been back. He looked across to the wall full of security monitors. There was an official security room elsewhere in the Manor, but Butler had long ago installed these in his own quarters, to help him rest. He'd taken to waking in the middle of the night to watch the main monitors right after Artemis's birth. His mentor at the time—Artemis the First's bodyguard, affectionately known as "Major" Butler—had become so frustrated at the nightly sojourns (which also woke him up, as they shared the same highly-tuned senses) that he had directed his nephew to splice a private feed into the room so everyone could have uninterrupted sleep. Once it was all installed, Domovoi could wake up and watch little Artemis in his crib for hours on end without having to actually move, until the soft glow of the screens put him to sleep or he was called into duty by the crying newborn.

If Artemis hadn't been missing, Butler would have smiled at the memory. That had been a good time, in some ways. Himself, the Major, and his sister, all under the same roof. Teaching Juliet to fight, protecting the Fowls...but Artemis had been such an...intense child, back then. If not for the fact that he was at the boy's side every second, Butler would have thought his charge was being physically abused. He was so silent and introspective, it seemed unnatural.

Butler knew that the truth was perhaps even worse than a hard hand. Artemis's genius, which so rarely failed him, was coming up against the ice of his father, and failing to have any impact. Perhaps it would have been better if Mr. Fowl had beaten his son. At least it would have meant that Artemis II was noticed.

Yet, in the last few years, there was such a change in the heir, and not all of it could be attributed to the return and change of his father. During this last adventure, he'd seemed almost...child-like. Excited. Even as they were in peril, he was joking. Butler had felt his years of unease melting away at the idea of his principal adapting to normal human interaction.

But now Artemis was lost. Holly was at least by his side. Two demons—relative unknowns, in Butler's opinion—were gone with the pair. Yesterday, the head of Holly's new division, Wing Commander Vinyáya of Section 8, had come to question him on the final moments before her officer disappeared. She was a knife of a woman, speaking efficiently, cutting right to the details she wanted. At the end of the interview, she'd let out a sigh of relief and deigned to tell the human what the People knew.

There was a chance. A slim chance. If somehow the spell that had originally removed Hybras from Limbo could be altered and enough magic brought into the operation, then perhaps... _perhaps_...they could return. Artemis could return.

As Butler watched Vinyáya speak about Holly, he'd felt hope returning. This woman was a highly trained soldier, and she had every confidence that Holly could do her part to save the day. And Butler never, ever doubted Artemis.

Butler managed to wheedle out the exact coordinates of the lost island's former site and called up a real estate agent in the area, with orders to purchase property. Money was no hinderance. He made more in a year as a bodyguard than most investment bankers; short of something like Fowl Manor itself, he'd barely notice the impact on his many bank accounts.

The guard was waiting for a call that would confirm acceptance of his bid on a tiny cottage in a fishing village, which was about as close as he could get to the island site without having a completely isolated plot, which would merely serve to attract attention. A cell phone rested on his chest, and he answered automatically when it began to vibrate.

"Butler!" A female voice gasped, and then began to babble on in such rapid French that his months in Paris and long-ago attained fluency struggled to keep up.

He recognized the voice immediately, and somewhat understood the words. He replied in the same tongue, but at a measured pace. "Minerva. Slower. What is it? Is it about Artemis?" If anyone but the People would have news on the boy's return, it would have to be this girl.

"No," she gasped. "No, I'm sorry, no. I need your help, Butler. Just for an afternoon. There needs to be an adult present, and I trust you, and I don't know who else I could call!"

He thought about hanging up. It wasn't anything to do with his principal. The principal was everything.

But the desperation in her voice...it tugged somewhere in his chest, just below the Kevlar letter etched in his skin. He nodded, and then spoke when he recalled that she wouldn't be able to see him. "Your villa?"

" _Non_ ," she replied, and the lowering of her voice finally allowed Butler to hear a shuffling in the background. Papers, a zipper, the _tack-tack-tack_ of hard-soled shoes. "Marseille. I have tickets waiting for you in General Xavier Lee's name." She clicked her tongue and there was a jingle of keys being picked up. "I'm afraid to admit I couldn't recall your first name...you never told me it, did you?"

"No." Swinging his legs off the bed, Butler also began to search about for items he would need. False identification, French bills, and a dozen other little things that which in a normal person's hands, would be little more than everyday items, like pens and earbud headphones, but which represented lethal weapons to any graduate of Madame Ko's bodyguard academy. "Will I need a car, once I'm there? I know someone in Marseille. He can get me something. I can't guarantee it will be bullet-proof, though."

"That's not necessary," Minerva said, the sound of her clacking shoes coming further apart as she lengthened her strides, briefly going rapid as she descended a long flight of stairs, before returning to her normal pace. "We will be meeting at a coffee shop just across from the airport. You can walk."

He winced at this, almost putting down his tools. "Minerva, I don't go into dangerous situations at public eateries without at least three day's prep time. I don't have a great record with show-downs."

"Showdowns?" Minerva said, and you could hear the frown in her voice. When she understood, she let out a little puff of air that seemed to blow away his objections. "There is no danger here, Butler. I just need an authority figure present. Just dress all in black. Maybe some dark sunglasses." There came the sound of a car door opening and closing, and the muffled order (made so by her hand over the microphone) to begin driving east. As the car roared into life, she uncovered the phone and rapidly added, "And a camera!"

"A camera?" Butler repeated, perplexed. This was beginning to resemble one of Artemis's plots.

"Yes. The most impressive one you can find, with the biggest lens imaginable. I'll pay you back, so don't worry about cost."

"Film?"

"Don't bother." Again, the phone receiver was covered as she urged the driver to go faster. _Faster._

" _Minerva,"_ he said, so loud that there was no way she couldn't hear him, even if her entire fist had been about the phone as she tried to keep out the sound. "Minerva, are you all right?"

" _Non..."_ She took a deep breath, which rattled, as if her airways were blocked. "I am not in danger, though, so there is no call to panic. Just...meet me at the coffee shop. Please."

He paused at the door to his room, considering what lay on the other side. A family in the strange balance between grief at the loss of one son and joy at the prospect of two more, leaning far more into the realms of sorrow than celebration. What would they think when he dashed out of the Manor without explanation, driving off so fast any cop that might see him speed by would not even bother to give chase? Would they have hope? Would his return without the heir to the empire only send them into deeper grief?

"...Butler?" Minerva whispered, going back into silence after what sounded like a brief, choked struggle for more words. All that could be heard was her breathing, which was uneven, and the purr of the car's engine.

"Calm down," Butler ordered, turning the knob and stepping out of his room. "I'm coming." Before she could say anything more, he hung up, stuffing the phone back in his pocket.

Strangely, doing this...going to a genius child's aid, complying with unexplained orders, no desire to question...it felt right.

Butler allowed himself a brief smile of gratitude for the girl. At least he wouldn't be completely rusty when Artemis came home.


	3. Negotiations

Butler hadn't had time to shave, and the sight seemed to delight Minerva.

" _Magnific_ ," she praised, standing from the café

"Minerva. What is going on?" He did sit, but did not bother studying the menu, except to note that it appeared to have been printed that day, and boasted fresh ingredients, even going so far as to name the local farms that they came from. It was all quite difficult to make, Butler knew, and there were no prices listed for any dish. As is always the case with such things, if you had to ask the price, you probably could not afford it.

He wasn't off his food because of the sudden summons. He'd had even shorter notice under the Fowls as a general rule. Butler simply never ate at a restaurant when he had a charge in tow. A fork in the hand slowed you from getting the gun at your hip, and he was accustomed to going hungry for far longer periods than this.

Even if those crepes did look _sublime_.

Minerva took her seat once her guest had done the same, and she toyed with one of her forks, catching the light that managed to come through the sheer umbrella fabric on the tips of the tines, making them seem far more dangerous than they actually were. "Just...an arrangement. Nothing illegal!" She shivered under Butler's glare, though she did not try to escape his eyes. "Merde, that look...Artemis does these sorts of things to you often, doesn't he?"

"Less so lately," he admitted, not intending to reference the boy's absence, but realizing the past few weeks were among the most peaceful he had spent in years. "But you have to tell me―"

A high voice called out to them from the outdoor café's gate entrance. " _Mon petit cygne!_ "

Minerva flinched. " _Perdon_ , Butler. Later. I promise." Rising, she stepped back from the table and was instantly enveloped in tanned arms and a voluminous skirt.

Butler was stunned, despite his normally untouchable demeanor. This woman... He'd only had a single adventure with time tunnels, so far, but he could completely believe that the woman embracing Minerva was the girl's own future self. They had the exact same sharp facial features and petite builds, like blooming dandelion heads, threatening to blow away with a single breath.

Only their clothes set them apart. The woman wore untold numbers of shifting layers of white and palest pastel lace as a skirt, a soft pink spaghetti strap as a top, and dangerously high clear sandals below. Minerva, in contrast, wore a plaid skirt and crisp white shirt with an embroidered crest over the left breast pocket, along with plain black Mary Janes and long socks. Butler hadn't taken too much notice of the outfit, at first, finding it somewhat similar to Artemis's attire at St. Bartlby's School for Young Gentlemen (minus the skirt, of course). If the little cross on that crest was any indication, Minerva was Catholic. Or one of her parents. Or, at the very least, one of the best schools in the region was, and she was simply attending for the benefit of a good education. Which was laughable, really, when one knew that she could probably out-lecture every professor at any school for secondary education, and most at the tertiary level, as well.

"Mother," Minerva pronounced, taking a step back and gesturing to Butler. "This is Xavier Lee. Mr. Lee, my mother, Leanna Ferris."

Butler inclined his head. Ferris. She had never changed her last name. Which was not necessarily a bad sign for a couple entering into wedded bliss, but seemed far too telling about her plans during the nuptials, based on what Butler had been told about the woman during the stakeout on the Paradizo chateau.

Leanna, upon finally realizing that the man seated before her was a part of the ensemble for the meal, seemed startled "Oh!" She began to look him up and down, and, slowly, her eyelids seemed to grow heavy, resting at half-mast, the sun sending miniscule sparkles off her pink eyeshadow. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Lee." She extended her hand, palm down instead of sideways, the small aberration in position informing Butler that she assumed the hand would be kissed, not shaken.

He and Minerva exchanged the most cursory of looks. Very little needed to be said.

Obediently, he took the hand, grunting as he gave a single shake, and let go.

Minerva looked straight ahead, serene.

Her mother didn't seem to notice the slight, smiling in a quite...obvious manner, in Butler's opinion. She tilted her head, and it made some of her lightly curled hair shift, moving off her shoulders until it became caught in her cleavage. And what a cleavage it was. A deep, inviting crevice that one would normally only expect to see when a corset got involved. As everyone sat, Butler made an (accurate) guess: fake. Very, _very_ fake.

"Minerva, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" At 'pleasure,' Leanna's eyes had darted to Butler, drifting down his body one more time, coming up to form a connection between their eyes.

Something in him was smug at this. The fairy age treatments had done wonders, it seemed. He barely looked the forty-one he was supposed to be, and nowhere near the 56 or so the emergency healing had made him. If only he hadn't been injected with dwarf butt-fat to get those results...

Based on her slow inward breath, Minerva hadn't missed the flirtation. She reached up to adjust her hair―another distinguishing feature from her mother, for at least this day, done up in a high ponytail, with her natural curls falling out the end like an exotic anemone―before going on with the conversation. "It's about Papa."

Leanna twitched, and her loss of composure was reflected by a momentary tremor in her voice. "Gaspard? How is he? He hasn't tried to contact me in _weeks_." She pouted at the abandonment, and barely had the good grace to hold off on false tears.

Minerva shrugged. "I imagine he gave up the last time he called, when the gardener answered and said you shouldn't talk with your _mouth_ full."

If he was a fraction less trained, Butler would have gasped. Not so much because of the affair―he was fully aware of the Paradizo mother's activities, from Foaly's intel―and more from the fact that this young girl had said it so casually. He felt somewhat foolish, a second later. The young lady's gender had led him astray. This was no delicate version of Artemis. She was ruthless enough to gain his original principal's approval.

Leanna took the words far less well, gone white with shock. Apparently, she was less familiar with her daughter's tongue. "I...wish you hadn't heard that..."

"The walls at home are very thin," Minerva shot back, looking at her menu, though her eyes did not make the back and forth motions of reading. "And some of the doors don't have _locks_."

"Minerva, I...know this is hard for you, but your father and I thought it best if we separated."

"Oh?" Minerva looked up from the specials. "Then why haven't you agreed to sign the divorce papers? I believe you accepted delivery of them three months ago, yes?"

"I did..." Leanna hesitated, playing with a strand of hair, looping it about her finger and pulling until it bounced free. She glanced at Butler, attempting to work out the reason her daughter had brought along this stony wall of a man. "I just didn't think it would be good for you and Beau. We could at least wait until you finish school."

"That is utterly ridiculous," Minerva spat, her aspect hardening to the same degree that her mother went soft and appealing. "Separated, divorced. What does it matter if you're hours away _fellating the help?_ "

The other diners had taken sudden noticed at the outburst. A prim Black woman in a flowered hat that bespoke of the height of Parisian fashion was particularly caught, pressing a handkerchief to her gasping mouth. "My word," she breathed, on the verge of a swoon, or perhaps a scramble in her bag to find some holy water to cure the bedeviled child.

The rest of the diners, however, focused their ire on the mother. Even so close to the city of love, such wanton behavior was only the activity of a social pariah.

Leanna looked around, then leaned in to whisper, trying to retain the family privacy her daughter had not seen fit to respect. " _Mon petit cygne,_ it will be only a few years. Your father can wait until―"

"Papa is _dying_ , mother."

The patrons were now completely caught up in the drama. Many fine dishes went cold as they strained for every word. Butler silently mourned.

Leanna blinked slowly. "He...what?"

"Cancer," Minerva went on. "Of the brain, at the moment, but the doctors think it will spread within the year. He is getting treatment, of course, and we are hopeful about his chances." She tried to go on, but found her mouth too dry to continue. She took a deep drink of her condensation-covered water glass, accidentally swallowing a chunk of ice. When the glass was put back, she looked at her wet hand, train of thought gone.

"How...how long?" Leanna whispered.

Butler felt his hands itch, the tingle only to be cured by clutching a gun. That look in her eyes...he knew it well, from his time spent in Africa, working with the guards at a nature preserve. The same look he saw in a poacher's eyes right before he trained a laser sight on their chest.

Minerva was unaffected. "No one is sure. If treatment goes well, then it doesn't really matter. If treatment doesn't work...well, then it doesn't matter to _you."_

"Oh, Minerva, dear...of course it _matters_. Your father...you must be so scared." Ms. Ferris began to rise, an arm extended to sweep the young woman into an embrace.

"Sit _down_ , Mother," Minerva snapped. "I did not come here to be _coddled_."

Falteringly, as if still expecting her daughter to break down, Leanna retook her seat. "M...Minerva...why are you here?"

Nodding at her mother in acknowledgment of the apt question―the first one she had heard all day―Minerva reached under the table and took up a backpack, it's green matching the color in her plaid skirt. Zipping it open, she removed a thick black folder, flipping through the papers until she came across a red ribbon marking her place. She lay the open envelope and a pen before the elder woman. "Sign this paper and the ones following, wherever there are highlights."

Apparently, the woman had enough sense to know that her daughter would not answer further questions. Hesitating, she pulled the papers towards her and began to scan. She read at what was perhaps a normal speed for an adult, but Butler was long-accustomed to faster perusals, and had himself been trained to speed-read in Madame Ko's academy. The movements of her lips were far more reflexive than anything meant to aid pronunciation, so Butler gained no meaning there. However, based on Minerva's shaking hand as she passed her menu to the waiter, the man could form a very good guess about what was within.

When the waiter asked the woman what she would like and she responded with a shriek that really should have broken their glasses, Butler decided he was right.

" _No contest!_ This...this is absurd! I wont sign this!"

The waiter, wisely, absconded.

Leanna continued her tirade, going shriller and shriller. "Abandonment of spouse and dependents. Infidelity. _Burglary?_ "

"You took grandma's ring," Minerva reasoned.

" _My wedding ring!_ " Leanna thrust her hand and the square-cut monstrosity of a diamond in her daughter's face. "He _gave_ it to me!"

"It is common for courts to return heirlooms to the original family," the genius reasoned. "Especially when the wife is at fault."

Leanna did not stoop so low as to argue fault, instead attacking the contents of the document. "No judge would agree to this! It's completely unfair! I...I get _nothing!_ "

"On paper," Minerva agreed. She opened another pocket on the backpack, taking out a single plastic card. She held it between two fingers, twisting them so it flashed its hologram-imprinted sides rapidly. "This is linked to an account with five million euro waiting. The exact same amount you siphoned from the family accounts, actually." She leaned in, wafting the card enticingly near her mother's face. "Father wants nothing to go to you on paper, in case you try to argue for more in court when he is gone. But he―loyal fool that he is―wont leave you stranded, so I suggested this." She switched grip to hold the card with thumb and forefinger, as if it was something dirty. "Frankly, I don't understand _why_ he insists so, but there it is."

"No judge," Leanna repeated, pushing the papers away, "would agree to this. I refuse."

Butler held back from lecturing Minerva, but he had already decided that she would get a good talking-to, once this encounter was over. Telling Leanna of Gaspard's illness was perhaps the biggest mistake she could have made. With her husband dead, the woman stood to inherit _all_ of his wealth, which was far more than was contained in that little card. Blood had been scented, and she would not give up until there was a full carcass to devour.

Minerva was quiet, and Butler was sure she had realized her error.

Then, she raised a hand, fingers curled into a fist. "Luther," she intoned, letting up a finger. "Pablo." Another finger. "Sergi. Muthundi. Pietro." She looked at her wide-open hand, as if curious, though the coldness in her eyes reminded Butler so much of Artemis that his heart began to hurt. Both because of the reminder of his charge, and the idea that another child could contain such sterilized steel.

Looking into her mother's eyes and laying her hand down on the table, Minerva said, "Rupert."

Leanna finally let out a soft gasp. "You...how do―"

"Mr. Lee," Minerva broke in, turning to Butler. "Would you mind showing my mother your equipment?"

For a second, Butler though the girl had suggested something lewd, and his level of shock rose another notch. Then he recalled his orders and, greatly relieved, felt under the table, taking his new camera―a model that most professionals would have salivated over―out, holding it before his chest. He looked across at the mother, and he could not resist his impulses. Raising the viewfinder to his eye, he focused quickly and snapped a picture. He wondered if a copy of that moment would be a suitable gift for Minerva, or just a painful reminder.

"Mr. Lee has been following you since shortly after you absconded with Pietro," Minerva explained. "As you can imagine, he found you to be...exceedingly easy."

Leanna flapped her mouth uselessly.

"To track," the girl clarified, giving her matron a sugary smile to match her soothing voice. "If you do not sign these papers, then we will simple have to review them in court. I will gladly show the judge―and the _entire_ courtroom―what you have been up to."

"That is _extortion,"_ Leanna hissed. When her daughter did not quail, she snapped her focus to Butler. "Whatever she is paying you, I...I'll double it!"

Butler didn't even need to consider the idea. He laughed deeply. "You took five million euro? That's it? Lady, you couldn't even come close."

"But..." Leanna bit her lip. Then she seemed to have an idea and incrementally smiled. "I...I'm sure I can handle..." Looking at Butler though lidded, pink-brushed eyes, she delicately licked at the corner of her mouth. " _Whatever_ demands you put before me." Again, her eyes drifted down, eyebrows quirking as she reached her target.

Beside him, Minerva stiffened, manicured nails dragging audibly along the loose-woven fabric of the backpack.

Butler sighed, examining the woman before flipping his wrist, pointing at her with a slightly bent finger. "Ma'am, you lack one very _...important_ asset for interesting me, if you get my meaning."

Minerva's tiny gasp was overtaken by the elder woman's outraged cry, and both reactions made his smile deepen. The other diners seemed equally shocked, though a pair of girls―probably no older than Artemis―crooned and began to chatter animatedly as they looked at him. Apparently, while not precisely their type, the young women knew a few people they hoped were his.

"I..." Leanna again turned to her daughter, clutching a fist to her chest. "Minerva, _please_. Don't do this."

"Sign the papers," Minerva said evenly, "or I call up Pietro right now. _Then_ we go to court. And you wont even get _this_." She flicked the debit card in the sunlight, the hologram on the back flashing like the coin it represented.

The shine hit the older woman directly in the eyes, making her squint and lean away. " _Mon petit cygne.._.."

All she received was the pen, which Minerva forced back to her mother by flicking it with the end of the card.

It seemed to take forever for Leanna to take up the pen, and an additional eternity for her to place it against the first page. The nib moved silently, it's line thick and dark, appearing on the opposite side of each page as she flipped them away, though it did not bleed onto the next sheet. Progress was slow, as she was now reading each word, perhaps trying to find some loophole, though Butler was sure even the most skilled lawyer would not be able to find a chink in this armor.

While her mother worked, Minerva enjoyed a plate of fettuccine topped with thinly-sliced sauteed onions, sun-dried tomatoes, and scallops. She affected disinterest, spearing one of each ingredient before taking a bite, her chewing slow. Indulgent.

Butler heard the shriek of the fork tines against the plate as her hand shook. He knew that her real reason for chewing so slow was not to savor, but to make the masticated mouthful such an unidentifiable pulp that she could would not gag it up upon swallowing. The day was pleasantly warm, and they were in the shade, so the bead of sweat that fell from Minerva's hairline to right along her spine did not originate from the heat.

Every so often, Leanna would meet something that made her snort of frown, but she continued signing. Until the end, when the flipped a page and reared back, sending such a malevolent glare at her daughter that Butler's body tensed, awaiting further input, so he could counter an attack.

Instead, the woman began to tug at the second-to-last finger on her left hand. Her right came away and back, winding up.

Butler recognized what was happening just in time to place his hand before Minerva's chest, fingers flexing closed with perfect timing.

There was a tense silence as Leanna glared at Butler, her arm down after a well-done throw. It was as if she suddenly believed him at fault for all that had happened.

He ignored the woman, turning his fist so it faced towards the sky, directly before Minerva's face. As the young girl watched, like a child at a magician's show, he uncurled his fingers to display the ancient pink-gold ring, it's central diamond seeming to glow in the little light that penetrated the café's parasol. "Yours, now, I take it."

She nodded, holding up a cupped hand, fingers curling about the bauble once it was within her grasp, hiding it from her mother's ravenous gaze. Noticing that Leanna still watched, she flicked her hands at the remaining papers and took a tiny box from one of the many backpack pockets, placing the ring inside and then putting this in her shirt pocket. It added a little lump to her form, making her seem horrifically lopsided.

Leanna continued her signing. When she got to the last documents, she only read the title before stopping and looking up at her child, alarmed. " _Mon petit cygne_ , what is this? It makes no sense!"

"I was there when the lawyers explained everything to Papa." Minerva nodded at the waiter as he took her plate and left the check. "It makes perfect sense to me. Shall I explain?"

" _If_ you are able," Leanna hissed, putting down the folder.

Upside down and across the table, and even in French, Butler could understand the title of the document. _Abdication of Parental Rights._

"Aunt Thalia will be our guardian, and will live with Beau in the chateau," Minerva explained patiently. "I will continue at St. Monica's as a boarding student, coming home for holidays, until I reach majority, and then Thalia has agreed to sign over guardianship of Beau. From there..." She shrugged, as if the future was unknown, though Butler was sure she had already mapped out dozens of paths for herself and her little brother.

"But Minerva...I'll be here!" Leanna laughed, leaning over the table and placing her hand in the middle, ready for it to be taken up. "I will still be your mother! I can take care of you."

Minerva looked down at the hand, but did not remove her own from atop her backpack, where they had returned after her pasta was finished. "And let you make every possible appeal to the lawyers to get portions of our inheritance released to cover unexpected 'living expenses'? I think not."

"Minerva!" Leanna shook her head, tears shining in the corners of her eyes. "That...that is a _terrible_ thing to say!"

Minerva shrugged, but it was not to free herself from the accusation. More to imply how little it mattered. "Yes, well, you are a terrible person, Mother. Sign the papers."

"Minerva..." Leanna tried again, pen hovering. "How can you think I am so..."

Minerva waited for her mother to find a suitable adjective.

Eventually, Leanna shook her head, linguistic capabilities unable to match her daughter's accusation.

"I notice," Minerva said evenly, "you don't deny it. So sign the papers, now, or this meeting is over and I release the photographs."

"You...little..." Grinding her teeth, Leanna stabbed her pen into the release, scrawling a signature. Turning to the last page, she did so again, ending with a flourish that tore a tiny hole in Beau's page. Snapping the folder closed and throwing the pen on top, she pushed all across the table, making the cloth bunch, their drinks jerking and spilling.

"You...you have _no_ love for me!" Leanna snapped. Her eyes began to spill over, but Butler had no faith in those tears. Not when the woman's lips were twisted up to bare every tooth in a perfect gargoyle's visage. "You are...an unnatural child!"

The twitch of Minerva's pinkie as she picked up and began to inspect the papers was the closest she cam to flinching at her mother's words. Finding every "i" dotted and every "t" crossed, she slid the folder into her bag and stood. "Yes, well, I was always far more Papa's daughter than yours, Leanna." Fishing into her vest pocket, she again produced the card and tossed it to land perfectly in the middle of the woman's empty place setting. "The PIN is a two digit month and two digit day. You wedding anniversary." Shouldering her bag, Butler standing at her side, she threw a last comment at the woman that had barely raised her. "I do hope, for your sake, that you haven't forgotten it."

Butler moved at her side, finding he did so as naturally as with Artemis, whom he had spent over a decade serving, reaching forward to open the gated café exit.

Only when they had clicked the gate closed did Leanna rise, card clutched hard to her breast. She projecting her voice to their retreating backs, loud enough for all of the diners to hear. "It's true, Minerva, you always loved your father more than me." She laughed, far too deeply for a woman, and with a smile that did not fit on her face. "But Beau...he was always _far_ more _my_ son than _Gaspard's_."

Butler clamped his hand on Minerva's shoulder before her instantly straightened back could turn about to renew the confrontation. Artemis had never missed out on getting the last word, but the young man had never been in a battle with family. Family never wants for poisoned-tipped arrows. The mission was complete, so he forced the girl down the street, hoping his grip on her shoulder wouldn't bruise her delicate skin.

Minerva fought him, but did not make a sound as she did so, and an additional tightening of his grip stopped her protests. They were soon striding down the streets, turning frequently, going so fast that the young girl was forced to jog to keep up. When there was enough distance between themselves and the café, Butler stopped, letting his temporary charge's shoulder loose, taking a step back so she could have enough space for her tirade.

It did not come. Minerva stood in the middle of the sidewalk, staring down at her Mary Janes. She sniffed wetly once, but did not bring a hand up to wipe at her face. A soft breeze caught at her anemone hair, marring the perfect coiffure

"Minerva?" Butler prompted, tapping a finger to her forearm to make her step aside, so they both could lean against the window of a bakery and leave the walkways clear. "Minerva, are you all right?" It felt odd to ask that. Not that he had never said such words to Artemis. It was just that, every time Artemis was thus queried, gunshots or other weapons had just been involved. He had long ago ceased to inquire about the boy's mental state, knowing that, if anything was wrong, there was nothing he could do but be the boy's willing tool.

"No," she admitted, looking up to him and wrapping her arms about her chest, even though it was quite warm. She sniffed again before continuing. "I am not. My own mother just implied...my brother...she said―"

"Something that doesn't really matter?" Butler supplied.

"How can you say that?" Minerva yelped. "If Beau isn't legitimate―"

"I doubt your father would care," the bodyguard interrupted for a second time. At her incredulous look, he went on. "Or not how you would think. Has he shown any lack of affection for your brother?"

"No, he..." She shook her head ruefully. "If anything, Papa has indulged Beau too much." The French girl pursed her lips and looked into the bakery, though she doubtless was not taking in the plain white wedding cake on display. "He dotes on him."

Reaching out, Butler roughly patted the girl's head, causing even more damage to her hair. "Your father made his money creating new surgery techniques and tools, correct? He's a bright man. I'm sure he recognizes what sort of...creature he married. Either he already tested for paternity, or he simply does not care if Beau's _father_ is a different man from his _Papa_."

"But what if _I_ care?" Minerva insisted, pounding a fist to the window, earning a glare from the shopkeeper, though the man did not come outside (mostly because he noticed her conversational companion when halfway out from behind the counter). "What if _I_ want to know, Butler?"

"Then you are a bright young woman," he reasoned. "I'm sure you could sneak samples and perform your own tests." He considered her and chuckled. "Possibly with the contents of your makeup bag. I know your type."

She smiled at the compliment, tucking a strand of her loosened hair behind an ear, unaware that she could have used it to disguise her blush, which was light, and nearly hidden in her gently tinted Franco-Brazilian complexion. "My type?" she inquired, sticking her sharp nose in the air. "You mean geniuses?"

"No," Butler shuddered. "I mean women. You would not _believe_ the things I've seen my _sensei_ pull from her handbag."

The temporary lightening of the mood was dissipated as the girl took in his delicate shake at the remembrance. Chewing her lower lip, she ventured with, "You...aren't, are you?" At the bodyguard's confused look, she glanced about the street and crooked her finger until he bent and she could whisper in his ear. " _Gai?_ "

"Oh!" Straightening, Butler shook his head energetically. "No!"

"It's completely fine, if you are!" Minerva reassured, palms out. "Simply biological. A common permutation of human―"

"I'm _not_ ," Butler emphasized. "Trust me. I just thought it was the best way to get your mother to stop."

"You're...actually quite right," Minerva revealed, eyes glinting with mischief. "She's quite homophobic."

Butler wasn't sure what to say to that―considering he really _wasn't_ gay; not even mildly curious―but was soon freed from the burden of talking as the girl giggled and her hands flew up to contain the sound. It proved impossible, and soon she burst into laughter, jumping forward to wrap her arms about Butler's waist.

" _Merci_ , Butler! _Merci, merci, merci._ I don't think I could have done it without you." Her words were muffled by his abdominals and her hysterical laughter, but understandable enough.

Feeling somewhat awkward under the unaccustomed embrace―besides his little sister, who had been gone to Mexico for about a year, he rarely had any physical contact with another person that didn't involve breaking bones―he patted Minerva's back. "I'm sure you would have done just as well with pictures like those in your arsenal."

Minerva went rigid.

"...Minerva," Butler rumbled, sounding remarkably like a father about to reprimand his errant daughter.

Craning her neck back, lips thinned in a pained, nervous smile, she tried to laugh again, mostly failing. "There...were no photographs."

"Minerva!" Butler scowled, the look making her remove her arms from his waist. "That was a stupid gamble!"

" _Non!_ " she protested. "It could not have failed. I knew my mother would not want Pietro―the gardener―to see those pictures. She wouldn't even think to ask if they were real; she would be too panicked."

"He ran off with a married woman," Butler pointed out. "He's got to know she had other lovers."

"Yes, had," Minerva said. Then, after a pause, she went on, "And...has."

Butler's brows shot up. "Rupert?"

She nodded. "I called her once, form my new cell, and she said his name when she answered. I doubt she's ever been without a man since she turned fifteen. She is so scared her lovers will learn of each other that she would rather have less money, than more with no men." Suddenly looking away from Butler, she studied the passing shoppers, breathing out fast but soft. "All it took was a camera to fool her. I doubt she'll even question the legality of having no witnesses. Or, if she does, she wont dare risk questioning the divorce, if she thinks the pictures could be released." Looking up to Butler's face, so far above, she smiled, small and fake. "So, you see, not all women are clever."

"Hmmmm..." he responded, head shaking. "There's an exception to every rule. I maintain my beliefs."

"Oh?" Minerva said, the softness in her voice betraying her inattention. "Then what did your _sensei_ pull from her bag?"

Butler considered his childhood memories at Madame Ko's side. One in particular came to the fore, as it always did, and he grinned. "A skunk."

After a pause, Minerva snapped all her attention back on him, brows drawn in confusion. "A...what?"

With anyone but this girl, he might have gone into a description of a skunk, just for their offended reaction. Instead, he nodded. Then frowned, rubbing his bristly jaw. "She never told me how she got it into the Australian outback without me noticing, though. We'd been hiking for a _week_ after that parachute drop, for God's sake."

"I...I can't tell if you're serious or not," Minerva confessed. She looked slightly ashamed.

Face stony, Butler declared, "As I rule, Minerva, I am _always_ serious."

Then, just as she began to slowly nod...he winked.


	4. Surprises

Butler's bid on the seaside cottage was accepted, but that was really no surprise. It hadn't been so much a bid as the electronic equivalent of placing a suitcase stuffed with unmarked bills on the table. The paperwork was rushed almost to the point of illegality, and Butler's car (not the Bentley, but a practical and unassuming white sedan with enough hidden armor to rival the Pope-mobile) was already packed with the few possessions he deemed necessary when he came in to sign the final lines and accept the keys.

He'd never seen the inside of the one-bedroom house, and somewhat doubted that many people would be able to remember it, even with his possessions inside. It was the most basic and bare of spaces, little more than a square that was further divided into four smaller squares. The front door entered into the kitchen, a turn right taking you into the living room (with an old fireplace as the only heating in the cottage, and no AC at all), then left into the bedroom, and from there either through another door onto the concrete slab that was supposed to approximate a back porch or left into the bathroom, with a tub that was almost too small for Butler to shower in, let alone bathe properly. Even if you did manage to get into the shower, the last owner had left the porcelain so scrubbed clean that any occupant risked slipping and cracking their head open on the slightly rusty tap. While the tub was old, the toilet was disturbingly modern, with three buttons on top, instead of a handle. After determining that one was flush and another extra water, he decided it was best to leave the third a mystery.

All of the walls were a neutral cream. The floors were genuine wood, but more resembled 70s-era wood paneled walls than anything of real quality. Butler now fully understood the previous owner's gleeful acceptance of the bid: he'd been swindled.

However, it was closest available isolated property to the former location of Hybras, and that was all that mattered, in the end. Butler could walk down the rocky waterline and be at one of the People's fairy forts within fifteen minutes. The first time he had done so, the pixie on duty had actually soiled himself before Foaly had got on the com and confirmed that contact with the bodyguard was neither forbidden nor fatal. Butler had been dissatisfied that there was no news, but the end results of the visit was to his liking: a box was left on his back porch the next morning, which on opening seemed to contain a simple smart phone. Except its battery never seemed to drain, it constantly had full reception, and the voice on the other end of the line was the icy Wing Commander Vinyáya, head of Section 8.

They worked out a deal: weekly updates from her, and no more interference from him. He'd really had no choice, and that little contact was probably more than he should have hoped. Progress on the Hybras project had been stalled by Ark Sool, who—despite not being on the Council—was constantly making his opinion felt as head of Recon and Retrieval, the two branches of the LEP that would have the most to do with the engagement. He refused to put his manpower behind the project. Vinyáya had made not-very-vague comments about subtly irritating the gnome and anonymously gifting him with a bottle of centaur rum. Butler was fairly certain she'd have her own way by next Tuesday.

A few months passed, and the seaside turned colder. Juliet spent a week in town for Christmas, but had to leave soon after. New Years Eve was scheduled as her first cage match, and she could not miss such a momentous occasion. The Fowls visited on occasion, but never overnight, and they were never exactly pleasant company. Angeline's pregnancy glow was entirely put out over mourning for her eldest son, though she seemed healthy enough. Butler thought she might have descended to madness as she had when her husband had disappeared, but for concern for her unborn sons and Timmy's constant attention.

Two days after Christmas, and the meager decorations Juliet had set up were already packed away, making is seem as if no holiday had occurred. Butler began the day following his new routine: a fifteen kilometer run (in spite of the downpour afflicting the seaside) followed by a protein shake and an hour of meditation. He was a true adept of the art, even able to modify his body temperature like Himalayan masters. Without a principal to protect, he allowed himself to fully enter the mindless state, internal clock set to release him after an hour had passed.

When he came out of his mindscape and into reality, his head jerked towards the front door, where the opaque orange panes rattled. Based on the violence of each rap, the visitor had been trying to get inside for some time. Butler did not bother to speak as he rose and leapt at the door, heart pounding, nearly ripping the handle off as he yanked the door open. "Ar—!"

He had just enough time to blink down at his visitor before her knuckles rapped against his stomach.

"Oh!" Minerva yelped, taking a step back. Doing so brought her out from under the eaves, and a sheet of water crashed over her dark green trench coat hood and hair, both of which were long-ago soaked through. She cried out at the additional cold water, but did not come forward again, instead taking another step back so she was only under the rain, instead of the thick runoff from the roof.

"Minerva," Butler stated. He wondered if this was a vision within his meditation, or merely a dream. That was as good a reason for any other he could think of to bring this young woman to Ireland to stand, soaking wet, at his front door.

"B-Butler," she stuttered back, teeth chattering. A little of her hair had escaped the hood, and the water made it lay straight, the tips ending just below the developing swell at her chest.

"What are you doing here?" Butler finally asked, deciding even a meditation hallucination deserved a chance to explain itself.

"I w-w-w-wanted to visit, since I haven't h-heard from you s-s-ssssince you helped me and m-m-m-m- _merde!_ " She stamped her feet, arms squeezing her chest as she bent over on herself, trying to create a smaller body which would let off less of her heat reserves. Butler finally noticed how red her cheeks were compared to the blue of her lips. "H-h-how is it so c-c-cold when it isn't even _snowing?_ "

"The magic of Ireland," Butler explained, receiving a somewhat offended look back. "Come inside, Minerva. You look a drowned kitten."

She complied immediately, not bothering to drag her feet on the doormat, as her dripping-wet state made it a useless delay. Once the door was closed behind her, she seemed to melt, the warmth of the living room fire working through her soaked clothes. "I thought it was more commonly 'a drowned rat' in English."

Butler held out his hand for her jacket, receiving it and doing a visual once-over of her clothes. "A kitten would be more pathetic and..." He blinked. "Are those jeans?"

Minerva looked down at herself. "Corduroy, actually." The black pair of pants actually seemed to fit quite well, the somber color balanced by a light pink cable-knit turtleneck. Both had managed to escape a complete soaking, but the girl continued to shake, teeth chattering like a novelty wind-up set.

"Artemis never wears jeans," Butler stated.

"If that is his style, then very well. I find these to be quite warm." A full-body shiver seemed to belay her words. "Except when I step off the plane and into a _monsoon!_ "

"Monsoons are quite a lot warmer," Butler said from experience. "Go. Sit by the fire," he ordered, pointing to the hearth. "I'll get you some broth."

She almost skipped away from him in her joy, and Butler's return a few minutes later found her so close to the flames that the rain was steaming out of her hair. Already the humidity was making it curl up on itself, and there would doubtless be some cursing when it came time to brush the mass out. Minerva kept her eyes closed, mouth soft and curved with the pleasure of warmth. When Butler allowed his footfalls to become loud enough to catch her ear, instead of coming up as silent as a cat, she sighed and looked up at him, eyes half-lidded in a manner that might have given a less-principled man some immoral and illegal ideas.

However, as Butler held out a bowl of recently nuked chicken broth, her expression changed to one of simple joy, her pubescent features loosing all inappropriate allure in that quick reaction. She accepted the bowl and took a large mouthful, letting her mouth open in a long, steaming groan.

"Better?" Butler asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor a bit further off from the fire, though well within its warmth.

"Much," she agreed, tilting the bowl to her lips and gulping down a long stream of broth. Her lips were slowly changing from blue to pink, though her cheeks remained far too red.

"Good. Now, mind telling me why you're here?"

There was a tightening about Minerva's eyes at this, creating little crow's feet, but she continued to sip until her bowl was empty. Then she cupped it in her hands and pressed those between her thighs for the residual warmth, sweeping her head so the mass of her hair rested on the shoulder closest to the flames. "I decided to visit."

"Hmmm," Butler said, studying the girl. Her reactions were more pronounced than Artemis's, but not by too much. It was still a great effort to read her, and only the last decade and spare change with his charge made it possible. "And why didn't you call ahead?"

She tapped her nails on the clear glass bowl, the rhythm studied, but going with no tune that Butler could identify, despite having heard so much classical music in Artemis's presence. "You may have refused to be host, and then where would I be?"

"Home," Butler returned. "With your family. Does your father know you're here?"

"No," Minerva clipped. "Not...really. Papa is...Papa has other concerns." She closed her eyes for a few seconds, collecting herself once more with a deep breath, looking Butler in the eyes, her own even and emotionless. "He believes I am spending the rest of the holidays with a school friend."

"And if he should call this friend?"

"He shall be redirected to a facsimile of her voice mail, and I will call back from my own cell. Simple." The last word was said with the French pronunciation, _sah-m-pluh,_ and a little shrug. Butler had the distinct impression she was disappointed he had not worked it out himself.

"You're lying to your father."

Minerva paused at this, her tapped tune stopping. "You guard Artemis Fowl, and fibbing to my Papa is unforgivable?"

Butler also paused, tightening his jaw at yet another mention of Artemis. Finally, he managed, "I never said I approve of what Artemis does."

"Well, if I thought my father would be eager to let me spend a week in Ireland, alone with a mid-40s bachelor, I would have told him. I rather thought it wouldn't go over well."

Butler winced. " _Mid_ -40s? Really?" Just as Minerva was about to amend herself, the rest of her words sunk in, and he felt himself pale. "A _week?_ "

"Six days, actually," Minerva clarified. "My flight leaves at noon on New Years Day." At her uninformed host's continued horror, she held out a hand, flipping it at him. "Oh, don't worry! I have brought plenty of reading materials to amuse myself. The courier should be here before nightfall to drop it all off. And I will be fine sleeping on the..." She glanced around the room. Her face fell, but her mouth could not stop in time. "Couch."

Butler also looked around. There were two file boxes full of back-issues of _Guns & Ammo_ in one corner and a folded blanket on the floor where he did his meditation. The rest of the room was bare, the light of the fire reaching across the entire room to help highlight it emptiness.

"I...can make do with a sleeping bag," she amended.

"I only have the one."

"One is all I...oh." Minerva stared at Butler a moment. Then she went to her feet, walking the few steps to the bedroom door. She pushed it open and looked inside.

The laundry bag sitting in the middle of the room kept the clothing clutter in hand, but its blue plastic didn't help the non-existent decor. Several weight discs and bars were stacked in one corner, topped by a _gi_ which had not been folded since his last round of _katas_. A sleeping bag was laid out in the middle of the floor, with no pillow in sight. Through the bathroom door, she saw one towel laid on the floor, another on the curtain rod, and a roll of toilet paper resting on the counter.

Minerva backed out of the doorway, eyes wide and mouth open in horror, as if she'd stumbled upon an abattoir.

Butler watched, bemused. He was suddenly reminded of what a terrible person he secretly was, but that didn't stop him from feeling relieved. Now, surely, she would demand to be taken to the airport and shunted back to her cushy villa in France to finish out the holidays in decadence.

"How...long have you been here?" she whispered.

"Four months."

Minerva again let her eyes drift about the living room. Glancing into the kitchen, she saw no table. No chairs. Though there was a cheerful flower-print apron, it was hanging off the front sight of a shotgun leaning against the refrigerator.

She turned and looked at Butler. " _Non_."

"I'll drive you to the airport," he said, rising and trying to restrain his grin.

" _Barbare!_ I will not allow it!" Minerva declared. "Get your coat. We are going shopping."

Fear lanced into Butler's heart. Blonde teenage girl. Shopping. Bad memories. _Very_ bad memories. "I can't afford furniture," he lied smoothly.

"Hah!" Minerva picked the blanket up from the floor, draping it about her body and head as a makeshift cloak, as her trench coat was still too sodden to be of any use. "You have just under two million euro in the bank. You are quite fine."

Butler was about to deny, but his jaw did him the ill favor of dropping. "I...how do you know that?"

"I checked your web account, of course," said Minerva, going to stand by the door. "Come. If we hurry, everything can be delivered by nightfall."

"You...hacked my account?" Butler blustered, rising to his feet despite his own desires.

"It wasn't hard," she said. "Hardly hacking. I can not believe you of all people had such a simple password."

How was it that he was putting on his jacket and looking for his keys. "It's randomly generated," he pointed out. "And fifteen digits long!"

"I know," Minerva confirmed, opening the door and wincing at the all-too-familiar blast of cold air. "I really must teach you to be more secure with your online presence. Identity theft is a very real problem, you know."

Butler simply nodded as they walked out the door, the girl running behind him, trying to use his shadow to block the rain, yelping when it was not completely successful. It was best to just agree with whatever such a woman said. Agree and pray it would all be over soon, with his bank account left somewhat intact.

* * *

She didn't take him to the most expensive store in all Ireland. In fact, it was perhaps the blandest furniture emporium in the world. The floor was a white synthetic tile meant to mimic marble, but which had been marred by years of too-long-neglected spills and stains. Sample draperies covered the walls, similar colors kept side-by-side, in a slowly changing rainbow. A few carpets—small ones—were open on the floor, but the rest were in taped rolls in one corner of the warehouse, with a book waiting before them for buyers to browse for an unrolled view.

The furniture itself was divided by type, not color, and Minerva was selfless enough to make a bee-line for the beds. Butler expected great difficulties here, as he was a veritable giant, but there were actually a few beds that suited his dimensions. They purchased a floor model and the accompanying textiles, and their continued willingness to shop put the on-commission attendant into paroxysms of joy. The pair did their best to ignore him for the rest of the trip.

For herself, Minerva selected a two-seater couch that folded out into a bed, the fabric in a soft green reminiscent of mint ice cream, with extremely dark brown pillows as decorations. In deference to Butler's masculinity, she made sure that the pillows had no sequins or tassels, but they were terribly fluffy. Lamps were picked—silver bodies plus cream shades with a brown fringe—as well as a tiny dining room table and three chairs. Butler initially worried that she intended to invite guests, but she flippantly told him it was in case Artemis returned while she was present. He decided he liked her for that.

Other sundry items were purchased, the final checkout number well into the four digits, but Butler had anticipated at least five, so he gladly paid.

The experience wasn't too traumatic, compared to his fears. Still, at the end, he was too shell-shocked by shopping to have any desire to cook, even if it was one of his few remaining pleasures. He'd asked her what she would like to eat before he realized it meant slipping into the role of a host, instead of a disapproving adult trying to send the girl home. Grumbling at himself, he simply prayed that no one would find him in the company of a minor girl. The police wouldn't be able to hold him long, but Madame Ko would learn of it, and he'd spend the next decade paying obeisance to her at every visit, no matter what evidence he could show on the innocence of the situation.

Minerva had been busy considering food while Butler punished himself, and broke him out of his thoughts by saying anything would do, so long as it could be taken home and had some sort of meat in it. Butler was momentarily stumped. Part of him had thought that the activist girl would be a dreaded _vegan_ , and he had never gone out to eat near his temporary home. When they got back into the village, he went for the simplest option and picked up a few orders of fish and chips. The scent had piqued the girl's interest the second it was in the car, and she devoured it with a liberal topping of ketchup, despite Butler's good example and explanation that vinegar was the proper way to go.

The furniture arrived not long after their meal was done, and the delivery men ran off as soon as possible, most likely because of the shotgun and shooting magazines. Minerva's luggage (two large trunks, showing that she was not quite immune to the shopping bug, despite their previous semi-pleasant experience) arrived not long after, and she took a scalding-hot shower to get rid of the last of her chill, using all but a few seconds of the heated water. As Butler stepped under the icy spray, he calmly reflected that it was a good thing Madame Ko had made him do so much worse. Like the time he had accompanied her and a principal to the North Pole for a polar bear plunge and she had "accidentally" dropped her favorite dagger into the hole in the ice.

He made no comment to Minerva as he spent the last portion of the night before the fire, cleaning his guns. She read by the light of the fire, toes curling every minute or so as she came across something that she particularly enjoyed.

When Butler finished cleaning the last piece and had loaded his personal Sig and the shotgun, Minerva closed the book and held it out. Butler just looked at her, and she sighed, shaking the tome.

"Your first assignment. 'The Art of War'."

Brows rising, Butler accepted the book, opening it to the title page. "Heavy reading for a girl your age."

"Oh, please," Minerva scoffed, holding her hands up, fingers grouped into a 'W' shape. "Sun Tzu is too soft. He obviously never attended an all-girl's school. I intend to write a counter-argument this weekend."

Butler chuckled. He had put Juliet in an all-girl's school for the few years before she joined Madame Ko. Ko had been so intrigued that she required all of her female students to do the same, and encouraged the boys to cross-dress for a semester to get the same highly-educational experience. Few complied with the latter, and the few that did universally underwent PTSD treatment after just three weeks. "I'll read a few pages tonight," he offered, and the girl beamed.

He'd intended to skim just enough to pass off himself as knowledgeable, but read far more deeply and for far longer than he should have. If not for a lifetime of pre-dawn training, the bodyguard might not have risen until noon the next day. Having a well-rested girl around was almost irritating. However, when she asked about the book, Butler found himself talking rapidly, pulled into an intense debate, gesticulating violently to help prove his points. They talked for most of the day, only taking breaks when he decided he had to keep up his regular training. Even some of that—like weight-lifting—was interspersed with conversation. He was unsure if her voluntary help with dinner preparation was in order to keep up their argument (and argument it was, as their voices had become quite loud) or from a genuine desire to help. It was as she shelled the last pea that she won the point, and it left her beaming all through dessert. In truth, she won the large majority of the arguments, but Butler never simply _let_ her win, and he didn't find himself minding the defeats all too much. Those he won were entirely by virtue of having been in battle himself, and he found himself telling the girl old war stories he hadn't thought of in over a decade.

Little could distract them. In fact, when New Years came, the only reason either of them realized it was midnight was the cheers of their neighbors and a few distant gunshots. Once Butler had calmed down (distant gunshots not being one of his favorite things in the world), they were back to the discussion, without even a thought to resolutions and other traditions. They talked through dawn and right up to the moment that Minerva had to leave for the airport. Butler found himself loath to summon a cab for his guest. So, instead, he drove her himself.

The car seemed oddly silent after a week of chatter. Minerva looked out of her window at the Irish countryside, scowling despite the crisp green that covered the back roads.

Her goodbye seemed just as awkward as when they'd landed in France several months ago, and Butler didn't catch half of her words, as they were spoken towards her shoes. It was all quite formal, however, as if she was concluding a business trip. He responded in kind, fetching a porter for her luggage and driving off once his duties were done.

The drive home was even more quiet. The nights after seemed empty. There is only so often a man can clean his guns. He was almost... _mad_ at the girl. Before her arrival, his cottage and daily routine was perfect. Workout and wait. Now it all seemed a little too empty. A bit too large. Like only half of the space was being used. Wing Commander Vinyáya made her routine check-ins, and her lack of information only highlighted the unending string of days before him.

It was a week before he had to leave the cottage to restock his pantry. When he brought the packages out of the shop and popped the sedan's trunk, he stared inside for even longer than he had the time he discovered Grandfather Fowl had "forgotten" a minor Italian mobster in the Bentley for a night.

The stupid girl had forgotten her backpack.

After loading everything, Butler lifted out the bag, intending to mail it before he left the downtown area. He found it quite heavy and, curiosity overtaking good sense, he put it on the hood and unzipped the main pocket.

Books, of course. At least three dozen. More than she could have possibly read on this one trip. Many had white lines marring the artwork on the spines where the book had been opened a bit too far, and the bag gave off a spicy, dusty, and yet pleasant aroma.

On top of the books was a single sheet of paper: a printout of a plane itinerary for the coming spring.

Written in the bottom in tiny, precise script, was the message _There will be a test._


	5. Misunderstandings

Minerva was a frank girl, disturbed by very little, despite being at an age where her classmates giggled at anything faintly sexual and were finally looking at the nearby boy's school (and some of their own classmates) with more focused eyes. On occasion, when she had her literary debates with Butler, she would point out the significance behind the physical relationships of characters or the overt symbolism of a phallic object, and the one to blush would be the large man, and not herself.

Still, some things were beyond even her comfort zone, and negotiating use of Butler's one shower was a rather prominent concern. By luck, however, she had found her own little solution that fit right into Butler's normal schedule: if she could roll out of bed early enough (and it was a truly ungodly hour), she could take advantage of Butler's absence during his morning run. As his runs were rather long, she could indulge even her terribly spoiled desire for hot water and still have time to dress slowly before Butler came back, at which time she would declare—oh so casually—that she would also take a beach-side stroll, giving him his own privacy. It meant she went to bed far earlier during her vacations than when she was in school or at home, but this was not entirely a tragedy, as it put her on her debating partner's schedule, giving them more time to talk.

A few months had passed, and Minerva was back for another stay with the charge-less bodyguard. It was early, Butler was gone, and she was _freezing!_ Winter in Ireland was truly unnatural, and so, it seemed, was spring. All through the night, she'd awoke to violent shivers, tossing a few logs on the fire so she could again go into an uneasy sleep. She had no idea how Butler withstood the cold, as his room had no heater and only the thinnest sheets. She rather thought it was a "zen" thing from his teacher. Or perhaps a means of self-punishment.

Minerva had brought the fire up to a blaze before hitting the shower, where she groaned without reserve as the hot water loosened her muscles. Surely this was at least a venial sin. One of the nuns at school would know. But they might ask further questions and Minerva could not fathom how many rosaries they would force her to do for staying at the house of an older, unrelated man after lying to her ill father about her vacation plans. Not that she would do them, of course, but the number would probably be one not yet agreed upon by mathematicians.

She didn't bother loitering in the bathroom after her shower was done, instead wrapping a towel around her body and scrubbing her hair—recently cut to a more manageable, yet still curly bob—with another before dashing into the living room to stand before the fire and let herself be heat-dried.

Yes...utterly... _utterly_ sinful.

She'd just begun thinking about clothes when there was a rattle at the front door and, just as she turned to face it, a _crash_ as it was flung open. Minerva nearly jumped away from the intruder, but that would have meant landing _in_ the flames, so she simply held her towel tighter to her chest, the last of the water in her hair dripping onto her exposed shoulders.

"Big broooooo-theeeeeer! I'm hoooo-ooooome!"

Three near-exploding duffel bags and a rolling suitcase were dropped (one clanging quite loudly) on the floor and the new arrival stood with her arms wide and unburdened.

Minerva stared at the woman, mouth open, color rising to her cheeks, the flush no doubt spreading to her few non-exposed areas.

The woman noticed her and stared back.

Minerva dripped on the floor.

"...Excuse me, but do you know where my dear brother is?" The woman tilted her head so her long, blonde hair shifted, hanging halfway to the floor in perfectly straight lines. "Solid man, about yea high?" She held an arm straight into the air and rose to the very tips of her toes, betraying no pain at the absolutely torturous ballerina stance.

"I...he..." Minerva swallowed, then pointed at the back door. "Beach. Running."

"Oh. _Good_ choice," the woman chirruped, adding no more as she went into Butler's bedroom.

Minerva stood, more stunned and confused than she had been since running across the false Beau. Soon, though, she shook her head, sending water flying, and dove at her own bags, pulling out the first shirt and pants she could find, struggling her still-damp limbs into them. As she zipped up, she heard a _clank_ from the bedroom, then the slide of the back door. By the time she had dashed into the bedroom, the woman—his _sister?_ She looked like a model, not a...well, Butler—was gone, and a look through the door revealed her jogging on the rocky beach. She was holding something...long and shiny.

Minerva turned to Butler's workout equipment, finding many large, interchangeable weights and no bar. "Oh... _merde."_

Minerva ran outside, yelping at the cold and the occasional pointy rocks she stepped on or stubbed her toes against.

Too late. She heard a loud call and Minerva looked up from the dangerous sand.

The thin blonde woman was approaching a massive bald man, arms wide, freely displaying the metal bar. Despite the sky being cloudy, the morning sun as yet unable to overcome the mist and the fog, the metal seemed to gleam.

Butler looked at the bar first. Then at his sister.

The wind whispered, bringing with it the taste of salt. Seabirds cried like the lost souls of sailors. Waves broke on the shore with a sigh.

Butler dropped to the ground just in time to save his head from being caved in by a tremendous blow. The woman had put her entire body into the swing, perfect form, like a baseball slugger. Even from several yards away, Minerva could hear metal whistling through the air.

" _Pervert!"_ The woman screamed, and instantly Minerva wanted to bury herself in the sand or dive into the ocean and let a rip tide carry her away. "What are you _doing_ " Sand exploded into the air as she struck the beach where Butler's stomach had been a quarter second before. "How _old_ ," she stabbed at Butler's chest as he stood, with him turning sideways to narrowly avoid the blow, "is she! Fifteen? _Fourteen!_ "

Butler was, apparently, unwise enough to answer, because Minerva saw his lips move, and then the woman roared. The beach became a gladiatorial ring, a blur of sand, arms, metal, and screams.

Minerva got as close as she dared, which was still several yards away, and stood with her hands over her mouth, unable to blink, no longer registering the aching cold against her feet.

Butler was dodging, trying to speak louder than his sister's screams, failing utterly, as his breath had all been taken by his earlier running and present jump in adrenaline.

Finally, Minerva herself screamed. And, not knowing what to say, the words that came out were, " _Artemis Fowl!"_

Both Butlers instantly looked up and around, as if expecting to find the missing genius. Unfortunately for the elder, the scream came at the same time as his sister took another swing with the makeshift staff, and it caught him in the stomach, bending him double, driving every last bit of air from his lungs.

Seemingly unconcerned with this, the violent woman turned to look at Minerva. "Arty? What about Arty?"

"That..." _Arty?_ Who had given him _that_ name? Minerva collected herself; stuttering would not help her friend, and the other option (that of trying to disarm the woman) was pretty much impossible. Words, once more, must be her weapon. Pen mightier than the...exercise equipment. "That is how I know Butler. I caught him and Artemis stealing from me. A fa—"

Butler glared at Minerva with such force that she _did_ stutter.

"F-faaaaaairly endangered species I was keeping. As a pet." She looked to Butler, who nodded, muscles losing some of their tension.

The woman paused, then looked the young teen up and down. Turning back to Butler, she indicated the third party with a jerk of her thumb. "That's Minerva?"

Minerva blinked; she wasn't aware he'd talked of her.

"Yeeeeees," Butler groaned, pushing up on his knees so he stood mostly straight once more, though he held his stomach. "Juliet, this is Minerva Paradizo. Minerva, my sister: Juliet."

The woman—Juliet Butler, it seemed—once more inspected Minerva. She frowned. "You know, brother, when you said Artemis was messing with another scientist before he disappeared, I was expecting someone...older."

Butler laughed, then winced, rubbing his stomach, which was already sporting a very straight red weal, no doubt just a bit of time from turning into a fine, vibrantly purple bruise. "I didn't say how old she was. After living with Artemis, I thought you'd know to ask questions like that."

Juliet crossed her arms, pouting. "Well, _I_ thought you should tell me when people are visiting, to make sure I don't kill you for..." She trailed off, then snapped attention to Minerva once more. Apparently, the girl's attention span was not as great as her brother's. " _Do I_ need to kill him?"

Minerva flushed and stammered before getting a hold of herself and spitting out, "We read _books._ "

"Oh. Wow." Juliet leaned away from the both of them, picking a perfect angle to get maximum distance. "Boooooooring."

Minerva went from rather insulted to vaguely amused as she took in Butler's rolling eyes.

"Well...if that's all, I guess you're off the hook, big brother." She threw a glance back at her wincing victim and raised a brow. "What? Gonna need a doctor?" She didn't say it with a teasing tone. More snide. As if she were asking if he wanted his mommy.

Butler scowled at his little sister. "When you can send me to the hospital, I'll know it's time to retire." He took his hand from the stomach injury and stood completely straight, towering over the two girls. Only the deepening of a few lines at the corners of his eye betrayed his discomfort. "Now. I'll expect you haven't eaten yet?" He said it quite blandly and with a slightly raised brow.

"Come on," Juliet drawled, propping herself up with the weight lifting pole, "I don't want to ruin your day and demand some big, home-made breakfast." Her smile shined in such a way that Minerva was instantly certain she was lying through her dazzling teeth.

"How considerate," Butler mumbled, then sighed. "Well, if you two can prepare the things on the drainage board while I shower, I'll make omelets."

"Suh- _weeeeeeeet!_ " Juliet whirled the weight pole out of the sand, making it a mere blur of metal and reflected light before laying it across the back of her neck with seemingly no slow-down. She draped her arms over the pole and rolled a shoulder to gesture at the cottage, and the trio shuffled their way back inside, strides hampered a bit by sand and relatively minor injuries. Butler immediately shooed the women out of his bedroom and locked the door, the shower starting soon after.

Juliet soon found Butler's favored kitchen knife—apparently fetched from Fowl Manor, as he'd mentioned something vague about it being a family heirloom during her first visit—and began dragging it across the sharpening rod, sending up a shriek that made Minerva sweat and feel a bit ill. That knife scared the hell out of her.

Taking up the smaller of the two cutting boards and a less-intense blade, Minerva began to work on one of the tomatoes. After only a half-dozen cuts, she felt prickles along her left arm. She glanced to her right.

Juliet stared at Minerva, knife raised, glinting in the fluorescent lights.

"C...can I...help you?" Minerva squeaked.

"You...are," Juliet murmured.

Minerva's gaze darted to the blade, then to Juliet's eyes. She shuffled a half-step away. "Is...that alright?" If the woman made a move, she'd run. No knife-fights, even if she was armed. She'd be dissected in seconds.

After a long pause, Juliet blinked. Then blurted, "Yes!" She let the knife fall to imbed itself by the tip in the wood board, a quarter-inch from her fingertips. "Yes, go on! Only...well...Artemis never did this kind of thing." She paused, brows lowering "I mean...I think...I recall something someone told me about a sandwich?"

"Artemis did not cook?" Minerva was by no means a trained chef, but she'd helped her father make a few meals when he had a wild urge to show the few culinary skills he'd gained as a poor med student. "He...considered it below him?"

"A bit, yeah. More my brother worried about him cutting his hand off."

Minerva again shot a look at the blade. The side was decorated with a random mottling of dark and light metal, which Butler had claimed showed off the intricate folding of a hand-crafted blade. He'd made it sound on par with a samurai sword. Which he _also_ had in the house, but she somehow suspected that the traditional weapon had a less-honed edge.

Juliet followed the other blonde's gaze and laughed. "It used to scare me, too, until Madame Ko started my training." She held up her left hand, which had a few thin red lines. "Well...after a few weeks of training, at least." Juliet fetched a potato from the draining board, seeming to simply touch it with the knife in order to split it clean in half. Seconds later, it and another half-dozen potatoes were in little cubes, swept into a bowl.

Minerva studied the pile carefully. Then studied Juliet's fingers. Yes, all were there, and there was no blood. Astonishing. "Madame Ko...I've heard...a tiny bit about her."

Juliet laughed. "Oh...if it's only a tiny bit, it's because 99 percent of her life is completely unbelievable." And then she went into a story that had Minerva choking in disbelief and laughing with equal incredulity in turns. She had to leave off on her own cutting, or else risk her fingers, but Juliet went right on chopping, waving the knife in the air during the most dramatic moments. After the third wave, Minerva stopped flinching.

Somehow, even though it was all so much larger than life, and despite Juliet's words, Minerva found she believed every bit.

"A _bobcat_ in _Serbia?_ "

Or at least most bits.

"I have _no idea_. I was focused on aiming the rocket launcher and keeping a hold on the Sherpa, so I wasn't really asking questions."

"Ah," a voice came from behind them, "the Argentinian Uranium smuggling story?"

"Yep!" Juliet chirruped, making the last slice, instantly running the blade under water and drying it with a towel.

"Butler, seriously," Minerva said, turning from the counter, "how much of this...is...real?" She swallowed, stomach doing strange things which were in no way related to her previous hunger.

Butler rubbed the back of his head with a white, ludicrously fluffy towel—one of his few luxuries—drying off the black fuzz on his previously smooth-shaved head and face. He held a shirt in the other hand, and apparently hadn't finished tying up his black jogging pants, as the strings dangled low and the waist rested far down on his hips, showing the start of a downward trail of hair, an inch below his navel.

Minerva looked away, turning her eyes to her empty cutting board and casting about for some final item to cut. There was nothing, which was, doubtless, good for her fingers.

"Skunk in Australia," Butler said to Juliet, completely ignoring Minerva's question.

Juliet scowled, laying her knife down. "Forbidden City katana jousting."

"Elephant-rifle Canadian Mountie herding."

"Buckingham palace chloroform shipment."

Butler set his jaw. "Guantanamo. Bay of Pigs. Incident."

"That is _so unfair!_ " Juliet exploded, gesturing at him with the unsheathed knife. "She didn't bring those hogs into the country; she just diverted the shipment! And it wouldn't have been half as crazy if she didn't pick the one sow in heat to ride!"

At those words, Minerva went back to staring at the siblings. She felt certain she'd just heard key evidence for several puzzling international incidents. And that she would never be believed if she came forth with the evidence.

When they noticed her, the pair began to grin. Butler tossed his towel onto the back of a chair, pulling on his shirt, which was maybe a size too small for him—and likely the largest size available, simple insufficient due to the width of his chest—and gathered all of the ingredients. "Minerva, set the table. Juliet, I've got some fresh mangoes and oranges to juice. Hurry up, you two. It wont take long." He paused to glare at Juliet. "And put that knife away. I'm not handing it down to you if you mistreat it."

Juliet pouted, but placed the knife in its leather sleeve. The world seemed instantly darker and safer.

The trio got to work and all were soon salivating. After a few minutes, as the smell of cooking potatoes and eggs filled the kitchen, all of them were even doing so for the same reasons.

* * *

Butler outdid himself during Juliet's visit. Not that he served sub-par fare when it was just Minerva; Juliet was simply a bit more demanding and far more knowledgeable about Butler's repertoire. Each morning, while Butler went out on his jog, Juliet also ran off, hitting the town and coming back with a bag full of fruits, vegetables, cheeses, fresh fish, and the best bread Minerva had ever tasted. And Minerva was _French_.

Butler made comments about eating too many carbs and his sister making him fat. Juliet just snorted and prodded him in his bruise, which made him grunt and drop the subject. If either sibling had ever gained an unintended pound, Minerva would be shocked to hear it.

Minerva was rather silent during the rest of the visit. She'd had a few days with Butler before Juliet arrived, and the difference between the two periods was...pronounced. Without the distraction of books, Minerva couldn't help but fall victim to other distractions, none of which she found very productive. Or settling. She didn't even get much reading done, which irked her to no end.

The last night, Butler made a grand meal, large enough to feed all of his sensei's school and—he claimed— _almost_ good enough to satisfy Madame Ko. Juliet had brought back a bottle of champagne from fowl Manor and, despite Minerva's age, all present were given a glass. Thus, as the final course of blackberry sorbet was slowly eaten, floating in an inch of the champagne, Minerva was just loose enough to feel warm and brave. So she asked _the question_. Or one of them, as her first question, arising months ago during the cab ride in Taipei, had been joined by several dozen others.

"Why do the Fowls only hire Butlers?"

Both of the siblings, looked at her, seeming a bit more collected than she after their drinks. If any of their stories this weekend was true, building up a tolerance to alcohol was another of Madame Ko's lessons. They refused to elaborate. Though Butler had looked the most uncomfortable she'd ever seen him.

"Butlers are working for dozens of clients, all across the world," Juliet replied. "I mean, I work for a _wrestling_ league."

"Logical fallacy," Minerva said, feeling rather proud of herself for pronouncing the words correctly. The alcohol would have made it shockingly easy to make a Freudian slip just then. "Butlers can work for other people, but I've done my research, and Fowls _only_ hire Butlers as bodyguards. Except some of the older ones, and I theorize that only happens after a Butler...is killed." She swallowed. Information on the Fowls and their guardians was scarce, but she'd seen plenty of newspaper articles from the last handful of decades, which spoke of gun battles and bullet-riddled bodies, most of them enormous and muscular, and only a few with the surname attached. "Surely, at some point, the Fowls would find a better bodyguard than a Butler."

The siblings glowered at the very suggestion.

"Once," she amended, quietly. "You know...a fluke..."

Juliet kept up the look, but Butler eventually broke. "The Fowls always hire Butlers. Even if there's a better bodyguard out there. Because...no other bodyguard would serve them like we do."

Minerva looked between the two siblings, waiting for more.

Juliet finally let her face soften after the grave insult to her lineage. "With our lives." Looking into her glass, she murmured, "Well...those of us who finished training."

Butler placed a hand on his sister's shoulder, lightly squeezing until she gave him a little smile.

"Well...isn't that what a bodyguard does?" Minerva asked, tilting her head. One of her curly locks dipped into her champagne and she picked it out, sucking at the end.

Butler paused for some time before coughing into his fist. "In...principle. But in practice? You can't really tell until it happens. Even some of Madame Ko's students have decided their lives are worth more than the paycheck when a crisis comes. Or they disapprove of their employers so much that they end the contract and leave. And I can't really blame them. But a Butler would never do that to a Fowl."

"Why not?" Minerva shifted in her chair. He made it sound as if Butlers had no scruples or value for their own lives. The name of Fowl had long been known to her as one of the most influential in the criminal world. Had none of their guardians taken issue with the drug trafficking, theft, extortion, and outright murder of the Empire?

Butler frowned, taking another pause to think, swirling his cup of sorbet, making it fizzle and melt, golden champagne gaining a blue tinge. "Money...has never been the point with Butlers. It is...a matter of honor. Of...debt."

"Debt," Minerva repeated, though she was unable to duplicate the extra bass note Butler had put in, which obviously removed it from the concept of money. "Surely, since it's _your_ life on the line, the debt is _to_ your family."

"It is. And the other way, as well. It is a mutual debt."

"From the day we're born, Butlers are told that the greatest honor we can aspire to is to serve a Fowl...and die for them," Juliet expanded. "We're told...we are _born_ to die for them. When a new Fowl is about to be born, we _fight_ to become their bodyguard. Only the best Butlers become...Butlers." She took a drink to moisten her tongue. "Very...few of us...even the women...decide against it."

Minerva considered this. Both the words and Juliet's lowered eyes. "And...so why then did you not finish training?"

"It's not as bad as if I were a male," Juliet said quickly, "but...I don't know, actually. It just...didn't feel right. Spending all my time following some little kid around, making sure pretty much _everyone_ in the world doesn't take a pot-shot at him just because of who his dad is. I..." She laughed, rubbing a hand over her drink-reddened cheeks. "Guess I was just a bit too obsessed with wrestling! I didn't want to be in the shadows. Wanted the spotlight." She slowly let her hand drift back to the tablecloth, and Minerva could swear she saw a short black streak on the fleshy pad below her thumb, though there was nothing to correspond to it on the woman's face. "The rest of the family doesn't talk to me anymore." She scowled and pushed her dessert—half finished—away. "Not that they talked to us _before_..."

"Then...the crest?" She looked between the siblings, who shot each-other rather startled glances. "The one on your handkerchief, Butler. Is that a family crest?"

Juliet's lips twitched. "Well, well. You're slipping up, bro."

"She's a genius," Butler grumbled. Caught out, he reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a glaringly white handkerchief, turning it until the small image of a phoenix attacking a black cat was closest to Minerva. "I don't imagine you've found any pictures online?" At Minerva's nod, he eased. "The Butler family is rather...diverse. We only ever marry other bodyguards. So not many of us look alike, and it can be hard to prove that you're a Butler. This," he shook the cloth, "is the only way we can prove it to one another. The only thing we guard more closely is the Fowls themselves."

"What does it mean?" Minerva said softly, with all the reverence of a true seeker of knowledge.

The siblings looked at each other, no doubt having some psychic conversation. Even though they made tiny alterations in facial expressions, Minerva was unable to translate, and soon Butler sighed, tucking the cloth back into his pocket. "I'm sure you've tried to look it up. There's a reason you can't find an answer. Now." Standing, Butler gathered their plates and glasses, balancing far too many to seem safe, all without making even so much as a clink of crystal or metal. "You both have early flights tomorrow, and I'm not going to badger _two_ irritable teenage girls all the way out the front door. Go lay down; the alcohol should put you right to sleep."

Juliet made some over-the-top protests—her duty as a younger sibling—as Minerva obediently unfolded the couch bed and picked out one of her many books for some bedtime reading. Her eyes had just begun to droop (Butler being quite right about the alcohol) when the rather loud bed-springs quaked and protested, and she looked up from the pages to find the other female house-guest sitting on the edge, brushing her hair, decked out in gray sweat-shorts and a blue tank-top with a rump-tattooed cartoon horse romping on a rainbow.

"You can have your bed back," Juliet called towards the kitchen, from which the sounds of dish washing still came. "You need a better sleep than us, Mr. Chauffeur. I'll sleep here, in the interests of us not _dying._ "

Juliet was distracted enough by a little squabble with her sibling about his ability to drive after a few hours of sleep—and some rather sharp words when she said he needed more rest because he was an "old man"—that Minerva was able to indulge in and then hide a momentary flush. She wasn't unpopularat school, but she wasn't close enough to anyone for a giggling sleepover. Her family had always insisted on a single room, so the last person she'd shared a bed with had been Beau, following a particularly bad nightmare shortly after their mother had disappeared. Even sleeping on the other side of a closed door from Butler had felt awkward for the first few nights. She doubted she'd get any sleep with a practical stranger just inches away.

And she was quite right. The Butler siblings settled into sleep immediately—and it was _eerie_ , as neither made a sound while they slept, which was no doubt another bit of Madame Ko's conditioning—while she was left sitting up, back to the couch cushions, all but twiddling her thumbs. She had to look over to confirm Juliet was there, flopped atop a pillow, mouth open, but Minerva could never _forget_ the woman was there. When she was sure the woman was asleep, Minerva took up her book and, using a wholly inadequate book light, squinted her way through the entire novel and half of another before the battery spluttered out. Then she waited, sitting in the half-light of the distant streetlights, until there was enough of a pre-dawn glow to read again.

She wouldn't have realized that her bed mate was awake but for a very soft "hey" at her side.

Minerva looked over to find that Juliet had rolled onto her back, hugging the pillow to her stomach, and was looking up at Minerva, her hair somehow a tangled mess despite her being still all night.

Minerva expected some reprimand about how she'd obviously not slept or on the presence of bags under her eyes, but instead she received an almost tremulous question.

"Where...where's Artemis?"

Minerva paused. Then slowly closed her book, not even bothering with a bookmark. "Didn't Butler tell you?"

A shrug. "Not much. I know he's lying to me. And Mr. and Mrs. Fowl act like he's lost his mind whenever he's not around to hear. I know they've asked him to be bodyguard to the twins when they're born, but he's refusing, so he must... _believe_ Artemis is coming back. But I don't know why. And I don't know why he isn't _with_ Artemis."

Minerva recalled Butler's stern look a few days before, when she was describing how they'd met. They'd only stolen a moment alone since, but he'd used those few seconds to tell Minerva, in no uncertain terms, that Juliet was not to be told about the fairies. She'd hoped to avoid any private conversations with Juliet, so she was not immediately prepared with an answer. "I...was there when he left," she finally answered, almost wanting to spill everything when Juliet bit her lip and looked on her with wide, pleading eyes. No doubt that was an affectation, but it was quite good acting.

"He... _is_ coming back, right?" Juliet exuded such thick tension that Minerva knew to give her a little more time to finish. "My...my brother isn't...deluding himself, is he? Is Artemis...dead?"

Minerva didn't even need to consider it. Yes, she had seen Artemis disappear from the very air, gone to some alternate dimension with no guarantee that he would return but for his word, yet Butler's unflinching faith was enough for her. She nodded. "He'll be back."

"Is he...alone out there?"

Now Minerva did hesitate, because of the tone Juliet used. It was not completely a question.

"No. He's with...a friend." Minerva found herself looking away. Somehow, it seemed almost a lie, after what she'd seen of the female elf and the genius.

"Oh. Okay." The first word had been quiet. The second almost perky, and Minerva knew that the wrestler was off on another of her little mood swings (which, it seemed, were almost exclusively positive in nature).

Juliet shifted to sit up, which was only the second time Minerva had felt the bed move that night. Tilting her head around, she peeked at the spine of the book and then instantly leaned away. "Woah. 'The Vagina Monologues.'Went to one of those in LA, with the league women. Fifteen ladies who can bench press twice their weight, all yelling 'cunt.' Wasn't a man for five blocks around that messed with the cast that night." She smiled sinisterly, but soon wiped it away, though the innocence that replace it was rather less-than convincing. "I'm guessing that's one you _won't_ be discussing with Butler, though."

Shrugging, Minerva said, "It depends. Would you do me a favor and hide it somewhere before we go?"

Juliet grinned. "You know...I think I like you."

* * *

It didn't seem like long after that Butler was up and giving orders, setting his troupe of two on their way to the airport. Juliet darted about with all the energy of a sparrow, but Minerva dragged. She offered to buy the pair coffee at the village's one cafe, but they seemed inwardly supplied with caffeine. It was official: Butler training turned men into machines. Or monsters.

She must have dozed off during the car ride, as she woke to a cold cup and a sticky line down her fingers and onto one side of her skirt. She was too tired to even be annoyed.

Goodbyes were somewhat awkward, and more so for having to be so swift, being made on the curb and under the watchful eyes of security. Her normal hug and air-kisses to the cheek seemed almost wrong with Juliet watching, so Minerva skipped the latter and still felt the former was overly familiar. Juliet was by no means similarly restrained, sharing a hug that would have crushed a normal man or woman's bones and a punch to Butler's shoulder that made him nod in approval.

Juliet and Minerva were barely through the doors before Juliet plucked the younger girl's largest suitcase from her hands, walking with ease down a line of check-in desks. Minerva at first wanted to protest, but then decided she was too weary to risk taking up the weight again, so she just trudged after. She almost missed Juliet's words.

"He caught me."

"He...oh. _Oh._ " Minerva flushed on behalf of the girl, who didn't seem to be doing herself that favor, merely looking at the airline marquees. "I apologize. Erm...what did he do?"

"He lent it to me." Juliet stopped short of a particular line which, when Minerva finally focused, turned out to be for her own airline. Settling the rolling luggage and snapping in the handle, the wrestler turned to her companion. "Said he'd read it. Do you mind? Muchacho Maria'd love it. You'd never guess it by looking at her, but that girl loves to read." Juliet paused. Then frowned. "Or that guy. I was never really sure. And the rest of the girls just laugh whenever I ask." She drummed her fingers on the top of the suitcase, looking at the ceiling in a vague, airy manner.

"He...read..." Minerva shook her head, worsening her sleep-deprived headache. "No, I...suppose not." She scowled. "He's read it _already?"_ Many other questions were contained in that initial one, but Juliet just held up her hands.

"You wanna know, _you_ ask him, 'cause I _do not want to know_." When she was confidant Minerva's sulk was a sign of surrender, the hands came back down to her hips.

"Well...no offense," she continued, "but I'm gonna plan my future vacations so I don't have to share my brother with you."

"I...apologize, again. If I'd known—"

"Nah, my fault for not calling ahead." Juliet waved the other girl off. "Fourteen years living with the Fowls, you'd think I knew better than to jump in and try to surprise someone." She winced at some distant memory. "And, besides, it's good to know someone else is around to watch my brother for me. Thanks."

Minerva mustered a small smile. "He spends most of his time watching me, really."

"Hmmm...that might be because you walk around naked." Juliet pause to smirk, but was in no way slowed by Minerva's sputtering. "Might wanna watch that. The Fowls tolerate a lot of shady stuff, but that is _so_ not on the 'okay' list."

Then she was turning, waving, going away with a bounce in her high-heeled step, massive rolling luggage following her docily, while Minerva stood and suffered the deepest blush of her short life, praying the other passengers in her queue had not heard.


	6. Winning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the incredibly long wait. A...year and a half, huh? Um...oops?  
> This chapter title was written long before the Charlie Sheen thing. Also, before the final Artemis Fowl book was released, and the comments about Pullman were, at that point, a warning to Colfer, which I never managed to give. These parts stay. Which tells you two things. Kit is 1) stubborn about her jokes, and 2) slow as all hell sometimes.

The next few years were...disturbingly pleasant for Butler. After losing Artemis, he had expected to spend every moment until the boy's return blaming himself and developing his skills so such an event would never happen again. Instead, his time seemed split in half. Yes, he trained, and trained hard, always going to bed exhausted and waking up aching. Yet he also found himself able to play host for the Fowls, and particularly their newborn twins, Miles and Beckett, whom he had briefly been tempted to take on as his new principals. Whenever he began to see the appeal of the idea, Artemis's final words would ring in his ears: _If something goes wrong, wait for me. No matter how it looks, I will return. I will bring them all back._ Then there would be shame for his weakness, and Butler would steel himself, knowing that Mr. Fowl would offer to bring him back to the Manor as they were preparing to leave the cottage by the sea. Just for dinner, perhaps a stay overnight?

He never accepted. Butler never went further than ten miles from his cottage.

Except when he picked up or dropped Minerva off at the Dublin airport. She visited for at least a few nights on every school break, and she always came with a new box of books, and frequently mailed more whole she was away. Butler had several free hours open every day, as there is only so much exercise a body can take before it tears itself apart. He spent this time reading. On occasion, he tried to pick out his own selections from the village's used book shop, but they were never as good as the ones the French girl picked out for him.

While she visited, they discussed one or two of the books a day. It wasn't always an intense debate, as had taken place after reading Sun Tzu, but they often had different opinions, Butler drawn to one character while Minerva favored another, or coming to different conclusions about the greater theme of the work.

When they did get into full debates, Butler found that he was not always the losing party, and not simply because of the highly subjective nature of literature. Minerva was clever, a genius, yes, but she was undoubtedly a bit naïve. Butler had spent the large majority of his life traveling to some of the most dangerous parts of the world, putting his life on the line for things as noble as a friend or as base as a paycheck. Minerva, for all her cleverness and aspirations, was still essentially ignorant of the worst parts of humanity, and thus fell to his insights. After thirteen years being essentially bullied into matching his opinions with Artermis, it was...refreshing to explore his own mind.

While she wasn't deep into the dangerous underbelly of the criminal world, Minerva wasn't entirely ignorant of its presence. After finishing _Catch Me If You Can_ , one of her earliest recommendations, Butler made her vow to never show the book to Artemis. "He doesn't need any more ideas." She had been intrigued, and was finally told the full story about his first encounter with the People. Minerva was torn between disapproval and being impressed by his ingenious plan. Butler was not encouraged by the young woman's reaction, but it at least showed some moral base in her upbringing. Kudos to the nuns.

Perhaps to allay his fears about her morals, Minerva followed up that selection with a detective novel. Of a kind. Butler knew he was fictional, but he hoped Mr. Moon would never set his sights on Artemis Fowl.

He read Ian Flemings works and called 007 "an idiot, an misogynist, and a pansy," which led to an evening full of tales of his own bravado, with Minerva's jaw slowly dropping lower and lower with each scar he revealed. By the end, she entirely agreed.

It wasn't long before just talking during visits wasn't enough. The first phone call actually came from Butler, far too long past midnight, just days after her third visit. Minerva reflexively answered her phone, a panic rising in her at the unknown number, waiting to hear those terrible words: "It's about your father."

At Butler's voice, Minerva's adrenaline doubled, thinking that Artemis had finally returned, but, when the bodyguard began to go into some reflections on his latest bit of reading, the energy drained off and Minerva sagged face-down into her pillow. She kept the phone to her ear, though, responding with a goose down-muffled "uh huh" when it seemed necessary. Minerva didn't quite remember which book Butler said he'd finished, but her dreams were about being stuck in a water tower until God saved her.

As it turned out, God had stubble and a lot of muscles.

She'd been too distracted by the remembrance of the dream to do any classwork, but none of Minerva's teachers had the courage to reprimand her. Butler had told a few stories about Artemis's reign of terror at St. Bartleby's, but Minerva didn't have the malice necessary to ruin her own school. She might not have been religious, like her mother (claimed to be), but there _was_ something shameful about the idea of tormenting a nun.

When classes were done, Minerva had gone back to her dorm and called Butler back. He answered the call with a proud "I won."

Regardless of it that were true, another debate commenced, only ending when the dorm supervisor knocked and confiscated Minerva's phone. Luckily, she had the forethought to very thoroughly password-protect it, so the school was unable to inform her father whom, exactly, she had been calling. All they got out of her had been "a boy." Which, oddly enough, thrilled her father to no end.

When Butler finished a rather unique fantasy trilogy by a Mister Pullman, he grumbled for an hour, chopping deep into his best cutting board before telling Minerva that any author that thought it was a good idea to end a series by having two people confess their love for one another, and then _separate_ them for the rest of their lives deserved to be _shot_. _Repeatedly. In the kneecaps_. Minerva was a bit surprised at his vehemence, but privately agreed.

One visit, Minerva had barely managed to wait until her luggage was inside before she unzipped the largest bag and shoved a box of ten books into her friends chest, with undeniable orders to _read_. The chef wasn't even able to protest that their dinner had not been finished. Minerva took over the final preparations and, by the time the soup was laid before him, he was so drawn into the drama of Battle School that he didn't care that she'd added far too much salt.

That series led to a conversation full of misunderstandings and furious blushes as both agreed that the author was a complete moron in regards to sexuality. It took some time to realize that, despite Butler's lifetime dedication to a lithe boy and Minerva's residence at an all-girl's Catholic school (where we _all_ knows what goes on behind closed doors), neither of the debaters had any _direct_ reason to be offended. There was a somewhat longer lag between phone calls as they both tried to forget what they had been caught thinking about the other.

But, again: the author, a moron.

There was only one occasion where Butler couldn't finish a book that Minerva recommended. She was certain that her latest care package hadn't been in Ireland for five minutes when her cell phone rang. In retrospect, she thought the ring had sounded...indignant.

Minerva hit "accept" and Butler promptly informed her that _Finnegan's Wake_ was "utter bullshit." She had been jolted into attention, as that was said in place of a "hello." Also, because she could not remember ever hearing Butler curse before. It was remarkably ungentlemanly behavior for the man. She had pointed out that the difficulty of the text was one of the reasons it was considered such a classic. Butler could not be convinced, and Minerva did not see the book in his cottage on her next trip. She rather thought he threw it away. Or used it as target practice. Or kindling.

On the next trip, as Minerva was handing over her selections, Butler traded back a few thin, well-worn volumes, with orders to _not_ lose them. On pain of death. She was rather offended, though in no way intimidated, and, upon reading, couldn't figure out what the man saw in this sub-par author. In her opinion, Miss Tsirblou didn't belong on _anyone's_ bookshelf. "Heavenly opening" indeed!

She responded with what she considered a far better type of romance, giving him six _enormous_ books on a rebellious Scotsman and his-it sounded ridiculous, bit it _worked_ -time-traveling wife. Butler had looked at them in trepidation, but she inspected each of them upon her next trip and saw little dog-ears on favorite pages, right up to the very end. Quite a few were for "the good bits," but Butler had refused to speak about any of the sexual aspects of the novels. Minerva had, very gently, reminded him that she would be turning fifteen in March, just a few months off, and fifteen was the age of consent in France. And she knew that many, _many_ of her classmates had not waited to comply with law, whether it be civil or religious.

Butler had looked at her, face expressionless, for about thirty seconds before he changed the topic.

Butler cleaned all of his guns that evening.

He was fascinated by the honor of the Vorkosigan, and commented on some of the similarities in his life and that of the old soldier Bothari. Minerva was there when Butler suddenly stopped midway through the third book and brought his hand up to massage his chest, looking off into the distance for some time. Minerva asked him what the matter was, and he continued the long tale of his young charge, and of his reaching for some final, petty victory in the business world. And of what lead feels like as it digs into your chest.

Minerva thought of her own aspirations regarding the fairies. She wondered how this man could nearly lose his life and still love Artemis. Her father had looked down the blade of a knife heading for his skull and only been saved by a half-revolution, and Papa had still been _furious_. What must Butler secretly think of her, who had put her family in such danger for her own vanity. She, who had made Butler lose someone for whom he would have so happily given up his life.

When Minerva's visit was done and she returned to the villa, she burned her time tunnel notes. She planned to apologize to Butler on the next visit, but never did.

* * *

"I could have destroyed my parents' marriage nine years ago," Minerva said, rolling a dark blade of seagrass in her fingers, looking out at the low waves or a receding tide.

With a whisper of paper, Butler put his latest novel down on the blanket. What had begun as a stakeout impersonating a day of seaside sunning had stretched into an afternoon of silence, only now turned uncomfortable as the night approached and began to chill the girl next to him. She had buried her toes in the coarse, half-damp sand, pushing deeper and deeper to get at the last warmth given by the sun even as her shoulders trembled. She wore a thin, long-sleeved shirt, but the cold was making adequate progress through her long, legs, which were mostly bared by short swim trunks.

When Butler just looked at her, attentive, Minerva made herself continue. "One day, I needed Leanna for...I don't know, maybe to get something off a high shelf. Something out of a locked cabinet. It doesn't matter; I entirely forgot what after..." She snapped the grass in half and tossed it aside, grasping at another blade from the tuft at her side, pulling slowly so it more slid from a sheath than being torn free of earth. "I walked into my parent's bedroom without knocking. She was with...some man I'd never seen before. She tried to make up an excuse about him being a masseuse, but...well, I don't think even a normal six year old would believe you get a massage while shoved up against a wall."

Butler coughed and looked away. She's always been shockingly blunt in regards to sex, and in an entirely different manner than Artemis could be blunt. Artemis bothered using scientific terms, at least.

"I don't think she knew I had the vocabulary to explain it at the time, but when I yelled at her...she begged me not to tell Papa." This next bit of grass Minerva flung at the surf, but scowled as it floated back to her on the breeze, landing on her ankle. "She said it was the first time." She kicked her foot free, the grass becoming lost somewhere in the cascade of sand.

Butler watched her feet and the furrow her efforts had made on the beach, marring the smooth surface. She'd been so still all through this round of waiting. How long has _this_ been on her mind, instead of the possible return of Artemis? Perhaps since they sat down.

"I believed her," Minerva whispered. "I... _believed_ her, then...and the next time, when she said the man was blackmailing her. And the third time, when she said she was pregnant, and it was Papa's, and I couldn't split up the family."

Butler studied her face, which was twisting, fighting her emotions. "No," he said. "You never believed. Any of it."

Her shoulders tensed and her fists bunched on the blanket. "I...what was I _supposed_ to do!? He wouldn't have believed me! It was his _wife!_ I was _six!_ The only time he might have believed me was when I was ten, and I only decided...I had to tell him because..." She closed her eyes, shaking her head, hair brushing off a few grains of sand that had gathered on her bare shoulders while she lay back on the towel not too long ago.

Butler waited for Minerva's ragged breath to return to normal, and then he prompted her. "Because..."

"Because..." She opened her eyes and locked them to Butler's. "Because she said it was revenge. Because Papa was having an affair, too. I couldn't take her _saying_ that. I _knew_ it was a lie, and I wouldn't let her say it to anyone else. I gave her a day to tell him." Her eyes continued to burn with the echoed fierceness of that encounter. "She ran off that night. She didn't tell anyone. She just...left."

"She's a messed-up woman, Minerva." He was going to continue—say that she was insane for leaving a daughter like Minerva behind—but the young woman just snorted.

"My entire family is 'messed up.'"

"No," Butler protested, an unaccustomed flash of anger coming with the words.

" _Yes."_

" _Minerva!_ **"** Butler yelled. The young woman's eyes widened as she recognized his perturbation. Moreso when Butler shrugged off his jacket, pulling back his shirt sleeves to show his left bicep. He traced a thick pink line on the inner arm. "See this?"

Minerva had seen it—and a thousand other scars—before. It was one of the more noticeable, but just as much of a mystery as many others. She nodded.

"My father." At Minerva's widening eyes, he nodded back, slow, giving her mind—genius, perhaps, but still quite innocent—time to comprehend what he must mean. "He wasn't a Butler. That was my mother. In my business, most male bodyguards are willing to take the last name 'Butler' even if it isn't exactly traditional. Having that name, even by marriage, makes you ten times as valuable. And my father _hated_ my mother for making his career." He paused. Then shrugged, putting his arm down again. "Or maybe he was just 'messed up' to begin with. But he mostly ignored me and my older brothers, and just focused on 'keeping her in her place'."

Minerva continued staring at the arm, even if she couldn't see the injury any more. Tentatively, she shifted her weight until her thigh rested against Butler's and she leaned over his lap, taking a loose grip on his wrist. He could have easily resisted, but the man allowed her to pull the arm back out until she could look closely at the pink puckers and twists of skin and an eye-shaped spot that still seemed raw, as if the muscle was just below the surface.

She brushed her fingers over the scar. It felt...soft. Denser than the surrounding tissue, but very natural. "What...happened?"

"I told him to stop." His voice was even and he looked at his arm almost as avidly as Minerva, but she doubted he was actually seeing. "He broke my arm and went out to hit the pubs. I was eleven."

Minerva's grip tensed and she immediately tried to loosen it, worried over harming him, but it seemed to be too small a change for Butler to notice. When she looked up to discover his emotions, she found him looking back down at her with his dark blue eyes. Eyes just like the sea out on the horizon, where the sun was gone down, though it's distant light still kept the world from complete darkness.

"Do you know what my mother did?"

After several seconds, Minerva shook her head.

"She called Madame Ko and booked me a flight to her school. Then she pulled my arm until the bone was roughly back in place and dropped me off at the airport with just my passport. She hadn't even set the bone right. I needed surgery and months of recovery before I could really train. Thus the scar."

"That...that's terrible."

"No," Butler negated, his lips suddenly twisting up into a rather genuine smile. " _That_ is a 'messed up' family." He leaned in close to the girls face until her breathing stopped and she couldn't escape his eyes as he whispered, "I win."

Minerva gaped.

Then...she laughed.

Then she flung her arms around Butler's chest and cried, sobs only rising further when he began to gently stroke her back, though the touch was truly some comfort.

Butler held Minerva for a half-hour as her crying slowed, then stopped, her breaths going even and her body limp. Leaning over carefully, he picked up his jacket, sweeping it around to cover the girl, protecting her. From the chill, from her family, from herself.

It was dark and the mist off the sea was just beginning to coat her lightly tanned, smooth skin. Butler gathered the girl up and carried her back to the cottage, only needing one arm to support her slight weight against his chest.

* * *

The next morning, Minerva's flight home landed near her school, but she bypassed the institution, hiring a taxi to take her back to Tourrettes sur Loop.

When she arrived, Minerva found her father sitting in the rose garden at the rear of the villa, on the edge of a wide fountain. He tried to rise as Minerva came through the back door, but she was at his side and pushing him back down before he was even halfway up. His legs—thin now after months of nausea and chemical bombardment—could not conquer her simple girl's strength

"Should you be in the sun, Papa?" Minerva asked, sitting next to him.

Gaspard's skin was thin and pale and bruised. His hair long gone. For a time, he'd sported ridiculous hats to amuse Beau, but now his skin was left bare, the joke long since run out, Beau grown up just enough to understand what was happening to his father, if not enough to accept what was to come. Beau's behavior was getting unmanageable. He'd been asked, politely, to leave his former school. His new tutor was more understanding, though thrice as expensive. Apparently, even three tantrums a day was acceptable behavior at the price the Paradizo's paid.

Gaspard waved his daughter's comment off. "It doesn't matter." He barely managed to look Minerva in the eye as he said this, trusting her to understand.

Minerva's mouth opened a little. It took some time for her to let out an "oh." She grasped her father's hand. It was warm. Uncomfortably warm. They sat there for some minutes, Minerva feeling the burn of sun on her spine where her shirt did not cover her skin. Gaspard was the one that could handle any level of sun, after his childhood in Brazil. She was tanned after her weekend on the beach with Butler, but she could still quite easily sunburn, while her father would go on happily for another day entire after she was toasted.

But she would sit here. With her father, in the sun, for hours. Because this was what she had, and she could only have this for so long, she realized.

"I'm going to take a break from the Academy," Minerva announced.

Gaspard looked up at his daughter, hairless brows drawn. "Minerva, _no—"_

"Just the classroom portions!" Minerva grasped her father's hand tighter. "I can home study. There are a few papers I have considered writing and submitting to journals. I'm sure my teachers would allow that. And it won't...it won't be long..." Her voice cracked and she added her other hand to hold her father's. "Until I can go back."

Gaspard raised a hand to rub at his stubbled face. "I have your word, Minerva? You will go back? I know you geniuses have a low opinion of school, and there are plenty of millionaires that have dropped out of college and founded...the entire Internet or what have you. But promise me you'll go back and at least get a...a DEUG."

Minerva snorted at the idea, but, at her father's stern look, she put on a serious face and nodded. "Yes, of course. And Beau, as well."

Gaspard almost seemed to wince. "Er...encourage him to a bit higher. You won't really need the degree, but he...well, he found a box of cocoa powder today..."

Minerva laughed once and covered her mouth against further mirth, but the shine in her father's eyes told her that she was free to ridicule, so she let her shoulders shake until she could speak. "Mon dieu...was he ill?"

"Indignantly so," Gaspard confirmed, sending his daughter off again. "And the caffeine was enough to get his _au pair_ to quit, so I'm afraid you'll need to call the next on the list after the last round of interviews."

"Oh, so our fifth choice, then?" Minerva's voice went high, almost cracking. She seemed to be working not just through hilarity, but also hysteria. Soon, though, she was gulping down air, her smile fading and spine straightening until she was looking at her father once more, lips twisting in the effort of keeping up a cheerful face.

Gaspard studied her and waited. He was no genius, but he was the girl's father. She came to him when she needed her daddy, which might not be often, but it was often enough that he knew when he should sit and wait.

She wound down. Was silent for a while, stroking his thin-skinned hand. Minerva built herself back up again until she blurted out, "Papa, I know we have...better things to talk about, considering...and perhaps it should all be over, after the court finalized things..."

Gaspard tilted his head, lips curving into a frown. 'The court' meant this could only be about one thing.

"I just...I knew about Leanna." She looked down; not at their joined hands, but away from him, a bit over her right shoulder, her hair falling to obscure her face. "For...for a long time. A long time before she left." Minerva looked down, avoiding her father's eyes. "I was scared to tell you. I knew you'd be mad that I knew."

Gaspard nodded and turned his head from Minerva, back towards the disappearing sun.

Minerva resisted the urge to let her father's hand go. It would be a reaction born from fear, and she had never feared this man before. Even when she'd managed to burn a hole through a rather old Persian rug and the Macassar ebony wood below during one of her experiments, and he'd actually yelled at her for one of the few times in her life, she hadn't flinched. A family was quite a different thing to ruin than a floor, however.

"I ran a paternity test," Gaspard finally said.

Minerva felt her heart stutter and she wished that it really would fail her so she wouldn't have to hear the rest of this.

"On you," the man went on, and this made Minerva's head shoot up, gaping at her father. "While Leanna slept after the Cesarean."

"I..." Minerva finally managed to close her mouth, lowering her gaze once more. "So you knew."

"For many years. I had all the paperwork ready to file for divorce, once she woke up."

Briefly, Minerva's mouth opened. Then, finding she had nothing to say, she closed it once more.

"You're mine, of course," Gaspard finally said, reaching up to rub his bare head. "Can you doubt it, with this gorgeous hair?"

All of Minerva's breath left in a single, inappropriately loud laugh.

"When I had a chance...to hold you...when all of the doctors had left and Leanna was asleep and it was just the two of us..." He looked far-off, the tiniest of smiles on his lips. He held one of his hands, cupped up towards the sky, remembering a time when the girl next to him could fit into his arms so neatly. "God, I regretted running that test within a minute. Because I _wanted_ to keep you, Minerva. And if you weren't mine, I knew I would never win."

"But...you still looked at the results," Minerva whispered.

"I was young...or, younger than I am now. And foolish. And..full of pride. I told myself I could not tolerate being cuckolded by my wife."

Minerva frowned. Looked at her own hands. "But you...got...used to it? I mean...you stayed, even when you must have known she never stopped."

"God, no," Gaspard shook his head. "Never. What your mother did...it killed me a little every day."

There was a shimmer of tears in the corner of Minerva's eyes, and something faintly accusatory in her tone. "So why did you _stay?_ Why did you let _her_ stay?!"

He didn't respond immediately. Gaspard looked at his daughter, smile still there, but tinted by pain, from his own body and from her protesting spirit.

Reaching out, he put a hand to the back of his daughter's head, pulling her to his chest, letting her hide her face there as he slowly stroked her hair—so much like her mother's, just like almost every part of her—and gave her a chance to get control. Only a few tremors and sniffles remained when he could wait to tell her no longer.

"Minerva... _mon trésor_...I stayed because you and your brother...bring me to life a little every day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cut scene! As in...I cut this scene. Not that I...am switching scenes. Gods, who would do that by announcing it was a cut scene? But, anyway, last chapter ruined this paragraph, but I can’t let it go. Enjoy!  
> ***********  
> A few months later, Butler had been somewhat shocked upon opening one box of books to find one about...“lady parts,” as he said to Minerva. He eventually confessed that he loved the book, and Minerva was certain he wasn't that squeamish about the word. When she came to the sudden conclusion that he wouldn't say the word to her, Butler had to go through the terrible experience of having a newly-turned fifteen-year-old girl screaming “vagina!” at him until he finally, reluctantly, said it back, just the once, looking at his feet in much the same manner as her schoolmates did when being lectured by the nuns. She had been triumphant all through the day, but refused to discuss the book without using the word, and Butler wouldn't use it again, so they compromised by not discussing the book at all.


End file.
